


We'll Write Our Names in Stars

by LadyNikiforova, TheBlueshiftNebula



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Angst with a Happy Ending, But it doesn't happen, Enemies to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mafia AU, Mentions of Suicide, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Soulmarks, Torture, Viktuuri Reverse Bang 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:19:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNikiforova/pseuds/LadyNikiforova, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueshiftNebula/pseuds/TheBlueshiftNebula
Summary: "It's not in the stars to hold our destiny, but in ourselves." Yuuri's words never made more sense to Victor, and he knew where his heart belonged.Yuuri and Victor are working on opposite sides of the underworld: Victor works with the Bratva, and Yuuri's clients include the Yakuza and the criminal Leroy family. When their paths finally cross, it is in a brutal and violent twist of fate. Amidst the chaos of their underworld lives and the constant threat of the Bratva looming over them, Yuuri and Victor must trust in their soulmate bond, as well as their love for each other, to guide them through the turmoil.





	1. Nothing left of me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thanks for checking out our fic for the [Viktuuri Reverse bang 2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/viktuurireversebang18)! This story was a huge labor of love between the two of us, and I'm so happy with how everything has turned out. You'll notice that this fic isn't quite finished yet (it turned into a huge monster somehow). I can no longer guarantee that this will be finished by August 18th, but please know it hasn't been abandoned. I don't yet have a chapter count, but as soon as I know I'll be updating it.
> 
> The amazing art for this fic was done by [LadyNikiforova](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNikiforova/pseuds/LadyNikiforova). Check out her art on her Tumblr: [chat-noir-chocolat](http://ladynikiforova.com/)! 
> 
> A message from her: I'd like to thank [TheBlueshiftNebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueshiftNebula/pseuds/TheBlueshiftNebula) for this amazing collaboration and bringing the idea to life. Working with her was a dream come true for me! I couldn't have wished for a better partner, you were amazing <3 This story means a lot to me and it's the first important project I've worked at. I hope our love and dedication comes across and may you, the readers, feel inspired by this story and the message we wanted to convey.  
> All the love,  
> Ely
> 
> The writing is done by me, [TheBlueshiftNebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlueshiftNebula/pseuds/TheBlueshiftNebula) (check me out on Tumblr: [yuuri-nikiforever](https://yuuri-nikiforever.tumblr.com/)!)
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my amazing, ever patient beta [Mumblingcanadian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mumblingcanadian), who has endured my constant screaming about this story. Check her out on Tumblr [here](https://mumbling-canadian-fiction.tumblr.com/)!

Victor was sixteen when he made his first kill.

Standing up, the gun was almost as tall as he was at the time. Eventually Victor would learn that the size of a gun was nothing but an arbitrary measurement, something amateurs bragged about. A true professional could kill with a pistol as easily as an assault rifle.

The sniper rifle Victor had was nothing special: a simple Dragunov, chosen for its relatively lightweight design and ease of use]. Sprawled on his stomach, the cold of the concrete roof beneath him slowly seeped through his jacket and was turning his entire lower body to ice. Still, he did not move from his position. Yakov was in his ear, telling him that his target was due to appear at any moment. Victor couldn't move, not yet.

The cold feeling crawled up his stomach into his chest, touching the scarred remains of his soulmark. It hurt, but not enough to distract him from the mission. It would regenerate within the next few days, anyway. 

The feeling reminded him of burning the soulmark off his skin for the first time the day before: the blinding, white hot pain, so agonizing he actually passed out from it. He remembered waking to see Yakov standing above him, having moved him from the floor to the bed of his hotel room. 

Peering down the scope, Victor watched the office across the street. His target was some executive of a large finance company who had abruptly cut ties with the Bratva, seeming to believe his money and connections would protect him.

Fool. He obviously forgot who gave him that in the first place.

Victor thought back to the file he had read (more like skimmed) before the mission. He couldn't remember the man's name or his title, but he did remember the important things: that he had recently (with the family's help) been promoted through the ranks of this company; that he had a soft spot for orphans and animals; that he was overconfident.

And most importantly, Victor remembered his face.

Suddenly, that face appeared in Victor's sights. He adjusted the gun, the long barrel resting on the edge of the roof. "I have him," he said into the transmitter tucked into the collar of his jacket. 

" _Good,_ " came the reply from the earpiece. " _Take the shot_."

Victor took a deep, steadying breath, letting it out slowly. When he had imagined this moment—the moment he would go on his first mission, the first time he pulled the trigger on another person—he thought he would be anxious. Nervous, even. But of course, there was no feeling inside him; any and all of his emotions had been burned away with his soulmark. 

Timing his breathing to his heartbeats, he confirmed the location of the target once more—now sitting in a chair with his back to a very exposed window—and took the shot.

Victor wasn't sure why, exactly, the Bratva had decided to hire him and Yakov instead of using their own, in house hitmen. He suspected it was Yakov's idea, to give Victor an easy assignment as his first. Despite not being a part of the family directly, Yakov and the Pakhan went way back. Victor was sure Yakov convinced him to give them this assignment.

Which was, in the end, unfortunate, as the bullet hit the window, but did not go through.

Victor could see his target jump in his chair and turn, eyes going wide when he saw the indent in the window.

"Shit," Victor mumbled, more out of habit than any actual reaction. He should have been panicking, the dread pooling in his stomach, but there was nothing but a dull emptiness.

" _What? What happened?_ " Yakov, unfortunately, didn't have the same luxury, the concern and surprise in his voice made more obvious by Victor's emotionless state.

"Bulletproof glass,” Victor said calmly. "Seems he's not as dumb as we thought."

Yakov cursed. " _He knows we're here. We need to take him out before he can get away_."

“This wasn’t in the file,” Victor said flatly.

Yakov cursed again, more colourfully this time. “ _He knew we were coming somehow. We were supposed to catch him off guard._ ”

Victor watched as the room was flooded with men—presumably bodyguards—who made quick work of ushering his target out.

" _Get to the building across the street. You can get a better vantage point from there, get him before he gets into his car_."

Victor considered that. He would have to disassemble the gun, get to the bottom of the building, and set up all over again. It took him thirty minutes to set up the first time. He would never make it.

An idea suddenly occurred to him. _A soft spot for orphans_ , Victor recalled from the file. "Send someone to collect my things," he told Yakov. "I have an idea."

He yanked the earpiece out before Yakov could shout at him. Pulling off his cap, he let his long, silver hair flow free, running his hand through it quickly to mess it up. He took his coat off and rubbed in it the dirt, ensuring it looked good and worn before putting it back on. He smeared some dirt on his face for good measure. Finally, he removed his gloves, tossing them next to the still standing gun, and took off out the door and down the stairs. He only had a minute, tops, to get to his target.

Victor barely made it in time: he managed to get to the front of the building just as his target was being escorted into a shiny, obviously armored car. There was only one guard standing in front of the open car door, the others having already taken up their positions inside the vehicle.

Putting on his most desperate face (which was a challenge, given he felt no desperation), he ran up to the guard, holding out his hands. "Please, sir, can you spare any change?"

The guard peered down at him, annoyed but not suspicious. Begging children were not uncommon in this area (hell, in the whole damn country), and it provided the perfect cover. "Beat it, kid, before I beat you."

" _Sergey!_ " The target poked his head out the door, frowning at the guard. "The child is hungry and cold, can't you be human for a moment?"

The guard sputtered, obviously flustered. "But, sir, someone just tried to kill you, we don't have time—"

"Certainly we have five fucking seconds to give the kid some change," he spat back, digging in his expensive suit. Holding out about five hundred roubles, he said, "Here, kid. I really am in a hurry, though."

Victor put on a smile which he hoped looked relieved, as he casually sidestepped the guard, putting himself between his target and the open car door. He reached for the money with one hand while his other slipped a knife out of his pocket. As Victor took the money, his target dropped his hand and bent down to get in the car, bringing him that much closer to Victor's level. Before he could get all the way in, Victor thrust the knife upwards and into the man's throat.

Blood gushed down Victor's arm and splashed on his face. The man made a terrible choking noise, more blood gurgling up and out his mouth. There was confused shouting from inside the car, and the bodyguard behind him gave loud curse.

"You _fucking_ —" He drew his gun and fired at Victor. Victor ducked, keeping the armored car door between them. The guard cursed again and ran around it, but Victor was ready. As soon as the guard was within sight, Victor rolled quickly to the right and stabbed his knife into the guard's side. He cried out in surprise and pain, dropping his gun and falling to his knees. Victor dove for it, scooping it up and sending a round through the guard's temple before he could recover.

Turning, Victor saw the ones inside the car still hadn't fully realized what was happening. His target was slumped against the door, blood still pouring from his neck. There would be no recovering from that, Victor was sure.

Firing a few more rounds blindly into the car, Victor turned and ran as fast as he could. He ducked down an alley, running directionless through the streets until he was sure he wasn't being pursued.

Yakov picked him up three hours later, crouched in a dirty alleyway, clothes dry and stiff with blood. Despite Yakov's long and angry lecture about _unnecessary risks_ and _not listening to your handler_ , Victor considered it a successful first mission.

* * *

Yuuri was twelve when his soulmark burned for the first time.

It had happened, fortunately, during a day off from his tactical training. Unfortunately, he had been carrying plates to the sink after lunch.

The pain had been white hot, so intense it made his vision go black. The plates had slipped from his hands, the sound of them breaking drowned out by his piercing scream.

Mari was at his side instantly, guiding him away from the broken porcelain before he sank into the debris. Yuuri allowed himself to be led away, clutching his chest with both hands and shaking, his voice giving out on him. Tears streamed down his face and his breaths came in sharp, choppy bursts.

"Yuuri, sweetheart, what's happening? What's wrong?"

His mother's voice, usually soothing, was too laced with concern to be a comfort. Yuuri just shook his head, clutching the fabric of his shirt even tighter.

Mari, however, seemed to know instantly. "Yuuri, is it....your soulmark?"

Yuuri nodded, eyes squeezed shut. The pain was ebbing, finally, but now fear was replacing the pain.

Had Yuuri's soulmate just....died?

Yuuri recalled, when he was ten, Mari's piercing scream in the middle of the night. He had leapt from his bed and sprinted down the hall to her room, where she was curled up in a ball in bed, sobbing. Yuuri had instantly climbed into bed with her, touching her tear stained cheeks.

"They're d-dead," she had cried. "My soulmate. They're dead."

"Are you sure?" Yuuri had asked, desperate to help in any way.. "Maybe they're just in pain, or something—"

Mari shook her head vehemently. "No, they're....just _gone_. I can—" Her voice broke. " _I can feel it._ "

After that, Mari's soulmark had faded from black to a dull gray colour. Her soulmark would never glow, never change colour after that.

So when Yuuri's had burned, Mari seemed to know instantly what it could mean. As the pain faded, she gently took his shirt and lifted it up.

Yuuri was almost too scared to look, but Mari's sigh of relief was all he needed to know. "It's ok, Yuuri. They're alive. It's ok. You're ok."

The relief was strong, overwhelming, and it brought new tears to Yuuri's eyes. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor. Mari put her arms around him, kneeling next to him, rocking back and forth and whispering comforting words in his ear.

The pain he felt that day would be the first time of many, though he didn't realize it then.

Yuuri’s family specialized in one thing: tactical planning. It was a niche line of work for an even smaller (and not, strictly speaking, legal) clientele, but it was one that paid the bills and afforded them a comfortable life. 

Yuuri’s father always said, “the younger, the better,” when it came to training. And while Yuuri started his training young, Mari had started hers even younger. Mari was a natural, gifted in a way that Yuuri wasn’t. She always solved puzzles faster, picked up on tiny details no one else did. She was her parents’ pride and joy.

But Yuuri didn’t mind. His parents were patient and fair with him, and being the second born—and the more average of the two—actually gave him more freedom about his future. It was expected, though, that Mari would take over the family business after their parents, and that Yuuri would stay and support her. But Yuuri had other plans.

Their main client in Japan was obvious: the Yakuza. They would often have their Yakuza contact, Minako, at their small house in Hasetsu. She would bring them a plan for a Yakuza operation, and Yuuri’s parents—and later, he and Mari—would help plan it, finding holes and tweaking things for the sake of efficiency.

Eventually, Minako started bringing them plans from other families, other organizations they had either infiltrated or had intercepted communications. The point was often to predict the plans of these organizations, to see if there was a way to thwart them.

In recent years—when Yuuri was still living in Japan, at least—other clients had started reaching out to them as well. Yuuri’s family could often predict whether or not a plan was going to fail, or whether someone would be a likely target for assassination. They could often help thwart an assassination, except when it came to a specific family: the Bratva.

The rivalry between the Yakuza and the Bratva had only grown deeper over the years, and while many of their assassinations were interrupted by the Katsukis’ planning, there seemed to be one man that they could never quite get the drop on. And despite their research, or their connections with the Yakuza, they never found out who it was.

It was something Yuuri looked into on his own as well. This man, whoever he was, obviously didn’t have direct ties to the Plisetsky family, or else he’d be easier to find. Which was probably the point.

Over the years, Yuuri’s research into the mystery assassin dwindled, but Yuuri often wondered what it would be like to finally catch him.

* * *

Victor was twenty four when he started having doubts.

He stood in his pristine St. Petersburg apartment, his bags packed and ready to go. His next mission would be in Spain, working for an independent client this time (not the Bratva, for once). Yakov usually only provided Victor with the bare minimum of details: the target’s schedule, work place, home address. The less Victor knew about the person he had to kill, the easier it would be when he had to confront his emotions after his soulmark regenerated.

This time, however, was different: the target knew they were coming.

Lately, more and more missions were being made increasingly complicated, and there was a recurring theme to them: the targets were prepared for him. Somehow, they knew about Victor, knew about his missions. The Bratva insisted there was no leak, that their network was air tight, but then where was the information coming from? Who was predicting his movements so perfectly? Though Victor had yet to fail in eliminating his targets, it was becoming a hassle.

And worse, it was becoming more dangerous. 

His mission preparation was, for the most part, routine: pack his bags, get one of his many passports in order, clean and pack his weapons. The final part, however, was anything but routine.

A cozy fire was crackling in the fireplace as Victor stood in front of it, his chest bare. In one hand was a glass with a shot of vodka; in the other was a red hot branding iron. In his mouth was one of his strongest leather belts.

This was, by far, the worst part: burning off his soulmark.

Soulmarks were common knowledge in society: they were the bond that connected one person to their soulmate. Resting over the heart, the mark was unique to everyone, like a fingerprint, and was always a dull, monochrome colour. When a person met their soulmate for the first time, the mark would glow a brilliant colour, different for every person, as if to celebrate the coming together of two souls being made whole.

Soulmates were connected through their marks. And if a soulmate’s mark was damaged, the other felt it as well.

Tipping the glass back, Victor swallowed the vodka in one gulp. With the taste of it still burning his tongue, he silently counted down, taking deep, steadying breaths.

_Three....two....one...._

And finally, as he always did, he sent a silent message to his soulmate:

_I'm sorry._

Victor took the iron brand and placed it against his soulmark.

The pain, no matter how many times he did this, was always the same: a searing burn that threatened overwhelm him. Biting down on the belt, Victor let out a muffled cry as he pressed the iron deeper into his skin. Tears welled up in his eyes, though they didn't spill over. He hadn't cried from the pain in a long time.

He moved the brand away, biting down even harder as strips of skin stuck to the iron. He moaned again in pain as he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing hard, counting the seconds as they passed.

Slowly, torturously, he removed the brand from his chest completely, dropping it back into the fire. The acrid smell of burning flesh wafted out of the fireplace. He spat out the belt, still making small, pained noises as the skin continued to burn. Turning away from the fireplace, Victor quickly made his way to the bathroom, where he had gauze and disinfectant waiting.

He gently placed the gauze on his chest, hissing again as the burned edges of his soulmark were covered by the bandage. The relief of the salve almost became a new kind of pain, and the whole process was absolutely agonizing.

Soulmarks were the connection between soulmates. But they were also the connection between the mark's owner and their emotions.

Even as Victor grit his teeth, he could feel his emotions draining away: there was no longer any frustration at the process, or any intense, overwhelming sadness at the fact that this pain was being shared by his soulmate.

Looking in the mirror, Victor saw his dead, expressionless eyes. In four days, when his soulmark would begin to regenerate and all his emotions would come rushing back in a flood, this moment would haunt him the most. It always did.

At the moment, though, he simply nodded in acknowledgement to himself. No emotions would interfere with his mission.

Not that they ever did.

* * *

At the same time, 2000 miles away, a sharp, burning pain woke twenty year old Yuuri from his fitful sleep. He gasped, bolting upright in his bed and clutching his chest with both hands. Curling in on himself, he bit back a cry as the pain spiked. It felt like someone was pouring acid on his chest, making his breaths come in short, panicked bursts. The pain was searing, and he had to stop himself from screaming. 

After a moment, it slowly began to fade, until finally, it disappeared altogether. Panting heavily, Yuuri pulled down the collar of his oversized sleep shirt, just barely making out the black soulmark etched into his skin. It looked the same as it ever did, despite the agony that had come from it a moment ago. It was all gentle curves and soft lines: the top was a thick, almost C shaped curve, with a shape like a wave at the bottom. In the middle was something like a small body: all in all, it almost looked like a bird. A bird waiting for its mate.

Yuuri touched it tentatively, as if trying to comfort his soulmate. _What is happening to you? What's been happening to you all these years?_

The pain was familiar to Yuuri, but that didn't lessen its impact. It happened every now and then: the pain of catastrophic damage done to a soulmark. It had been happening off and on since he was twelve. It scared him then, and that fear hadn't lessened; even now, nearly a decade later.

Yuuri was afraid. Afraid for his soulmate that he had never met. Afraid for his other half.

What kind of torture were they constantly forced to go through?

A drop of water suddenly splashed on his shirt. Yuuri blinked, and more water fell: he realized, belatedly, that they were tears.

He touched his soulmark again, gently, carefully. The thought of his soulmate in constant pain was worse than his own.

"I'm sorry," Yuuri whispered to them. What was he apologizing for? For not being there when they needed him? That they were in pain? That he couldn't help?

All of the above?

It look a long time for Yuuri to go back to sleep.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/138171551@N08/42038305494/in/album-72157668008580037/)


	2. Make the emptiness my home

Yuuri was nervous.

The feeling wasn't anxiety; anxiety was an old friend and an even older enemy, one that Yuuri was intimately familiar with. Anxiety was irrational, directionless, all consuming. Nerves, though, were something else entirely. Nerves had a purpose, a reason, and that made them slightly more bearable.

Meeting a new client was always nerve wracking, even when Yuuri was still working with his family in Japan. Now, meeting his first ever client as a solo consultant, Yuuri felt the butterflies dancing a waltz in his stomach.

He stood in front of a large warehouse in an otherwise abandoned lot, his car parked in a discreet location a little farther away. _Always have a way out_ , his father would tell him. _Have a way out that doesn’t depend on anyone else_. Driving in Montreal had certainly been an experience—it seemed the Canadian stereotype of being overly nice ended as soon as they were behind the wheel—but it was nothing compared to the busy streets of Tokyo.

It was unsettling, and maybe a little bit reckless, to be meeting a new client for the first time in a completely isolated location. What if they didn't want to work with him after all? What if they decided that he knew too much just by being here? What if they killed him on the spot—

Ah, and there was the anxiety.

Yuuri forced away the thoughts of his body being found off the coast of the Atlantic. He knew the risks of what he was doing. After all, his family's clientele had never been much better.

The door to the warehouse slid open, and a tall, well dressed young man strode out with two armed bodyguards behind him. The man was probably younger than Yuuri, though he had an air of authority that made him seem older. He was dressed in a deep purple suit that was tailored to his frame. His hair was shaved around the sides, and he walked with confidence—though maybe a tad over the top, Yuuri noted. Like he was putting on an act.

That was definitely something Yuuri could relate to. The man put on the show well; Yuuri only noticed thanks to his years of training as a tactical consultant.

The man came up to Yuuri, while his bodyguards stayed a few feet behind, respecting the privacy of the conversation.

"You must be the consultant," the man said, stretching out his hand. His French accent was barely detectable, slipping out only on the s.

"Yuuri Katsuki," Yuuri said, taking the man's hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Leroy."

Mr. Leroy threw his head back and laughed. It was loud and a bit obnoxious, but the smile he sent Yuuri was genuine. "Please, call me JJ! It's what my friends call me." JJ shook Yuuri's hand vigorously. "I'm so happy to finally meet you, Katsuki-san. I've heard lots of good things from Minako-san."

Yuuri's eyes widened at the honorific. No one had ever addressed him that way, in the way of his home country. Something warm bloomed in Yuuri's chest; maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"Call me Yuuri, please."

JJ's smile widened, and he clasped his other hand around their handshake. "Yuuri, then. I'm looking forward to working together." Finally he let go, and gestured towards the warehouse door. "Forgive me for my choice meeting place, but I have some urgent business to take care of. I hope you won't mind if I wrap it up before we officially begin."

Yuuri shook his head. "Not at all. Please don't let me get in the way."

JJ grinned at him, and then turned to his bodyguards, making a vague gesturing motion with his head towards the warehouse. "Then, if you'll follow me?"

They made their way to the warehouse entrance, where one of the bodyguards opened the door. As they made their way inside, there was the sound of crunching gravel behind them. Yuuri looked over his shoulder: a car was pulling up to the spot where Yuuri and JJ had just been standing, and a man who looked to be in his thirties got out.

Before Yuuri could get a good look at him, JJ clapped him on the back, ushering him inside.

The warehouse was dimly lit, and almost completely empty. Light barely filtered through the dirty windows, and a layer of grime coated everything. Everything, that is, except for a single chair sitting in the middle of the open space.

The warm thing in Yuuri's chest suddenly turned to ice. 

A few more men were standing in a small group, and they watched as JJ brought Yuuri to them. Yuuri noticed, somewhat belatedly, that there was a strong, sweet smell permeating the air. It smelled vaguely familiar, almost woodsy, but he couldn't quite place it.

Not a moment later, the door opened again, and the man from the car stepped in. He was balding, stocky, with the hint of a beard on his face. He was all smiles as he came up to JJ.

"JJ! So nice to see you! How long has it been? How is Isabella?”

Yuuri noticed, with surprise, that the man spoke perfect English. In anticipation for the assignment, Yuuri had done as much studying of French as he could, but it was slow going. He doubted he could even manage a conversation in Parisian French, let alone the fast English-French mix that was common in Montreal.

JJ smiled back, but it was nothing like the wide grin he gave Yuuri a moment ago. This smile was sharp, predatory....dangerous. "William! So glad you could make it." JJ wrapped an arm around the man's shoulders, slowly leading him to the solitary chair. "Isabella is doing well, thank you. How is Sofia?"

"Ah, you know how it is with women!" William said loudly, still smiling. "She's good, though. Been blabbering on about some new show she's watching. I swear, she gets chattier by the day!"

JJ had managed to lead William to the chair in the center of the room, and now they stood in front of it. "Have a seat," he said simply, dropping his arm from around his shoulders. The two bodyguards from outside materialized behind the chair, standing ramrod straight with impassive expressions.

William finally seemed to tune in to the vibe in the room. He laughed nervously. "Why are we meeting here, anyway? Don't you have an office in town? Or is this some new millennial trend I haven't heard of—"

" _Sit_ ," JJ said, and it rang through the room like a command. Swallowing audibly, William sat. The bodyguards behind him immediately put a hand on his shoulders, effectively forcing him to stay in place.

"To answer your question, yes, I know exactly _how it is with women_ , William." JJ turned away, and Yuuri caught sight of his expression: rage, red hot and burning. Yuuri had to suppress a shudder. "But to assume that I would treat them the same way you do...well, that's pretty messed up."

JJ nodded to one of the men standing to the side, who disappeared into the darkness of the room. "You know, Isabella met with Sofia last week. She had a black eye. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

William blanched at that, though he still tried to laugh it off. "Come on, JJ, you understand how stressful this job is—"

JJ rounded on him, expression twisting in anger. ” _That's_ your excuse?"

William squirmed in his chair, clearing trying to break free, but the guards held him down with an iron grip. "She's not even my soulmate! How could you ever understand?! You met yours in _fucking high school!_ "

JJ cursed in French, spitting on the ground in front of the chair. "More excuses. You are not a man. You are a coward. Only cowards hit their wives, soulmate or not. And we have no need for cowards in this family."

A creaking sound caught Yuuri's attention, and he turned his head to see one of JJ's men wheeling in a still boiling pot, which looked more like a cauldron. The smell Yuuri had noticed from earlier suddenly intensified, and it was with a jolt that he realized what it was.

Maple syrup.

Yuuri's confusion bordered on disbelief. Yes, this was a room full of Canadians, but the stereotype of Canadians and maple syrup....couldn't possibly be _true_.....

Could it?

In any other context, it might have been funny. Even here, with a man at the mercy of his family's second in command, there was some humor in it. But Yuuri didn't feel like laughing.

William turned bone white at the sight of the pot. "No, JJ, come on, man, I didn't mean—"

"Shut up," JJ cut him off sharply. William's mouth snapped shut. "Only my friends and family get to call me that."

JJ nodded to one of the bodyguards behind William, who reached down and rolled up William’s sleeve all the way to the shoulder. "My Isabella is my queen. Without her, I have nothing." The trolley carrying the pot was stopped next to William. "I would destroy the moon and drape our house in stars if she asked." Steam rose from the pot as the boiling died down slightly. "If I ever laid a hand on her, I would not be worthy to live, let alone touch her again."

William was whimpering at this point, eyes wide and full of terror. "No...please...you don't have to.... _please don't_..."

"Is that what Sofia said? When you hit her? _Please don't?_ " JJ sneered at him.

"I swear I won't do it again, I'll leave her, she can have all my money, I'll do anything you ask, _just please don't_ —"

JJ's face contorted once again in anger.

"We are way past forgiveness, William."

With that, JJ grabbed William's wrist and submerged his hand in the boiling pot.

The scream was piercing and immediate. Yuuri watched in horror as more steam arose from where William's hand, all the way up to the elbow, was being held in the boiling liquid. The sickening smell of burned hair and charred flesh mixed with the sweet, almost pleasant smell of maple syrup. The combination made Yuuri's stomach turn.

He started to back away from the scene—from the still screaming man and JJ's impassive face as he watched William's arm burn—when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. Turning his head, Yuuri saw one of JJ's men holding on to him, making sure he stayed.

Making sure he _saw_.

The message was obvious. _Don't fuck with me or my family._

Their meeting here—and JJ's _business that needed to be taken care of_ —suddenly made sense. It wasn't bad timing. The opposite, in fact. JJ wanted to send him a message.

Message received.

Tears streamed down William's face as his voice gave out, his screams turning into horrible choking noises. JJ, however, had already turned away and was walking back towards Yuuri, as if the scene that had just unfolded no longer held any interest for him. His broad smile was back on his face, and Yuuri could see the bodyguard behind him slowly removing William’s arm from the still-boiling pot. The contrast between JJ’s expression and the horrific thing going on behind him made Yuuri want to vomit.

“I’m sorry again you had to see that,” JJ said, Canadian accent slipping out slightly. Yuuri could almost believe that he meant it. “My men will clean this up. There’s a car waiting for us outside. I’ll be sure to have someone pick up yours and brings it to your hotel.”

Yuuri could only nod as JJ placed a warm hand on his back, silently but firmly ushering him back outside.

Yuuri really hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in taking this job.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was a bit of a blur; Yuuri hadn’t been able to fully shake off the awful scene in the warehouse. He vaguely recalled getting into the car with JJ and a few guards, driving back into the city, meeting JJ’s parents, who, by all rights, were far too nice to be the heads of the most notorious crime family in Quebec. Maybe it was a Canadian thing.

Eventually, though, they had to get down to business. Yuuri found himself in the living room of a beautiful penthouse apartment, with a breathtaking view of Montreal. They sat at a large wooden table by the floor-to-ceiling window, and a pretty young woman with jet black hair gave them both a glass of wine. She introduced herself as Isabella.

 _Ah_ , Yuuri thought. _His soulmate_. Yuuri could see the edge of her soulmark from her low cut top, a brilliant red colour peeking out from underneath the fabric. Embarrassment flooded through him at noticing, and he hid it behind a sip of wine. He didn’t usually drink at two in the afternoon, but, well, when in Rome and all that.

Isabella kissed JJ on the cheek, chastly, and left them to their discussion. JJ grinned at Yuuri, all teeth. “Isn’t she something? We’re getting married in the summer. If you’re still in the area, you should absolutely come. It’s going to be the event of the season!”

Yuuri coughed, feeling a bit awkward. “Ah, yes, of course.” He looked down at the files spread between them, looking desperately for a way to shift the conversation back to business.

Luckily, JJ did it for him. “Right then, on to less pleasant things.” He flipped open a few of the files, taking out various pictures and documents. “To make a very long and bloody story short, our main problem is with the French.”

Yuuri blinked a few times, confused. “But I thought…... _you_ were the French?”

JJ laughed at that, loud but genuine. “Yeah, you’re right. But I meant the French from _France_. Specifically, the Parisians.”

“Ah.” Yuuri tried not to let his embarrassment show. “From….Paris?”

“Yeah.” JJ frowned at the table, sifting through the documents once more. His moods seem to change faster than Yuuri could keep up with. “We operate in Montreal with little competition. Things had been going really well for a very long time, at least for my parents.” 

“But something’s changed.” It wasn’t a question; Yuuri could tell something was wrong. That’s why he was there, after all.

JJ sighed. “The Parisians have, for whatever reason, set up shop here in Montreal over the past year. They’ve been killing our men, ambushing our deals, stealing our drug stores. And, most annoyingly, they’ve been disrupting our maple syrup supply.”

Yuuri started a bit at that, suddenly reminded of the scene from the warehouse. The sickly sweet smell of maple syrup mixed with the smell of burning flesh—

“You know why we do that? Why we burn traitors with maple syrup?” JJ was leaning forward, eyes sparkling with something between pride and manic excitement. “It was my idea. Have you ever had a sugar burn? Those things hurt like nothing else. Scars are something awful, too. Now he’ll think twice before using that hand to hit his wife, the bastard.” His smile was sharp. “Plus, isn’t it also kind of hilarious? Canadians, torturing people with maple syrup? I am _so_ funny!”

He leaned back in his chair, taking his wine glass and sipping from it. Despite his boisterous attitude, his eyes were predatory, daring Yuuri to laugh along with him. In that moment, with the sunlight draping across his body and the fear still pulsing through Yuuri, he could see how this man would eventually become the new head of the family—if he could just reign it in a little (or a lot).

JJ sighed again, running a hand through his hair, and the illusion was broken. “We buy mostly from local shops. There’s been a real problem with major manufacturers ruining local suppliers, and we like helping small businesses.”

Yuuri raised an eyebrow at him. “And they don’t mind what you do with it?”

JJ shrugged, the picture of ease. “If they do, they don’t say anything.” He caught Yuuri’s eye and sat up straight, defensive now. “Hey, listen man, we don’t _force_ anyone to sell to us. They all do so willingly. And if they sell to us because we’re one of the only customers around…..” JJ shrugged again. “But the Parisians have been undercutting us. Buying up all the local suppliers at a higher price. Can’t even blame the guys who are selling it to them; it’s just business at the end of the day.” 

Yuuri understood: JJ’s family could just as easily buy from any other supplier—like from any of those major manufacturers—but at this point, it was a territorial dispute. Disrespectful. And that wasn’t something you put up with on home soil.

“So why not just take them out?” Yuuri asked, already working to come up with a plan to retaliate. “Surely if they’ve only recently moved in, there can’t be that many of them.”

JJ took another sip of wine, keeping the glass in his hand. “You think we haven’t tried that? They’re slippery, though. There are just enough of them to cause problems, but we can never seem to wipe them out completely. They keep coming back, like fleas. And the worst part is that they refuse to sit down with us.”

Huh. There goes Yuuri’s other train of thought. He frowned, picking up one of the pictures. It was grainy security camera footage of a man in a local shop. “They aren’t willing to talk at all?”

JJ shook his head. “That’s been the most frustrating part. They aren’t interested in talking, but they’re not doing enough damage to completely take over. It’s like they’re just trying to be disruptive for the hell of it.”

Yuuri nodded, absently finishing the last of his wine while looking over the rest of the documents on the table. “Is this everything you have on them?”

“It’s not much,” JJ said, “but yeah, this is all we’ve got.” He laughed a bit, clearing trying to hide his nervousness. “So, do you think you can help?”

“I’ll need copies of everything you have,” Yuuri said in response. “And I do mean _everything_. Anything even remotely related to this gang, including stuff you may not have thought was important.”

“Whatever you need,” JJ said easily. “How long?”

Yuuri looked at him squarely, his earlier fear and trepidation forgotten, shedded like a second skin. _This_ was what he had trained for his whole life. _This_ is what his parents drilled into him, from the moment he was old enough to understand. He may not have been naturally gifted for tactical work, not like Mari had been, but he had worked and studied and _trained_ until it became a part of him.

 _There’s always something that gets overlooked_ , his mother would tell him. _Something no one thinks is important. And that is almost always the key_.

Finding that overlooked detail. Discovering that the answer was right there, if only someone would give it the attention it deserved. Yuuri loved that feeling.

His hand was drawn to his chest, lightly touching the area where his still black soulmark lay. Would his soulmate be proud of him, he wondered? Working with mobsters and crime syndicates?

“A week.”

* * *

“ _Canada?_ You can’t be serious, Yakov.”

Victor was leaning his chair back on two legs, hands behind his head in a pose of perfect nonchalance. Yakov sat across from him, frowning in disapproval at his charge’s unprofessional posture, despite being in Victor’s St. Petersburg apartment. 

“I can, and I am,” Yakov said. “You’re going to Canada to see what has been happening with the Leroy family, and you’re not going to whine about it.”

Victor sighed, letting his chair fall forward to land on all four legs with a sharp snap. He had nothing against Canada, per se, but it was such an annoying place to travel to. It was a large country, but not as large as Russia. Their winters were famous for being harsh, but not as bad as Russia’s. Hell, it was basically discount Russia with weirder money. Besides, how could anything involving the Bratva be in fucking _Canada?_

Yakov slid a file across the table, which Victor slapped a hand on before it could spill into his lap. Opening it, he saw the file contained a number of photos. The one on the top showed a man in a hideous purple suit in front of a warehouse in an abandoned lot, surrounded by bodyguards. The second showed the same man in a different, though no less hideous, green suit, shaking hands with a tall willowy man in a beautiful top floor office. 

“Jean-Jacques Leroy,” Yakov supplied as Victor continued going through the documents. Mostly photos, but there were some of the standard things: shipping records, invoices, bank statements. “He’s poised to take over the Leroy family, based in Montreal. They’re small, but efficient. Until recently, they were nobodies.”

“So what’s changed?” Victor squinted at another photo, grainy footage from what looked like a coffee shop. The man Victor could only assume to be Jean-Jacques Leroy was sitting across from an Asian man, with bodyguards scattered not so discreetly throughout the shop.

“They were squabbling with the members from France for a while. Territorial disputes, we assumed.”

“ _We_ assumed?” Victor cut in. “Are _we_ part of the Plisetsky family now?”

“Hush, Vitya, and stop interrupting.” Yakov took a drink from his coffee before continuing. “The Leroy family and the French have been fighting for about a year now. The French were keeping them in check, so the Bratva weren’t concerned. But a few days ago, we learned that they’re no longer fighting.”

Victor tossed the dossier on the table. “So?”

“ _So_ , it’s more than that. They’ve officially joined forces.”

Victor tilted his head, confused. “Ok? So why do we care what a small time crime family in Canada is doing?”

Yakov sighed, exasperated by Victor’s complete lack of insight. “Nikolai finds this to be concerning. Yes, they’re a small family, but they came into power quickly, and now, after a year of fighting, they suddenly come to an agreement with the French in a week? And more so, they’re working together?” He tapped the file folder on the table. “It’s something any reasonable person would be interested in.”

Victor smirked at him. “Are you saying I’m not reasonable?”

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Yakov snapped. 

“And why are they sending me instead of one of their own?”

Yakov sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you going to ask that every time they have an assignment for us?”

“Probably,” Victor admitted. 

“It’s good business to keep an eye on the competition,” Yakov explained with all the patience he could muster (which wasn’t much). “Even if the competition is a small family in Quebec. But this sudden deal with the French? It’s concerning.”

“But not enough to warrant risking the family,” Victor finished. 

“You fly out in three days,” Yakov said in lieu of a reply. 

“And you?” Victor asked. Whenever he went on a mission, Yakov was never far behind. It was his duty, as Victor’s handler.

“I’ll be landing the day after you do.” 

Of course: never the same flight, never the same hotel. Hell, sometimes Yakov wouldn’t even be in the same city.

Yakov stood, effectively ending the conversation. Victor stood with him, scratching distractedly at the still healing skin around his soulmark. His last mission hadn’t been that long ago, and the burned edges of his soulmark were still raw. Victor wasn’t looking forward to the next few days.

He never really looked forward to missions, though.

Yakov turned to face him, a hand on the doorknob. He knew Victor needed his space before a mission. “Don’t take this lightly just because you find it boring,” Yakov scolded him. “The Leroys aren’t to be underestimated.”

Victor gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I understand.”

Yakov nodded once, and then he was gone. Victor allowed himself to slouch a bit, now that Yakov and his suffocating presence were gone. Sighing loudly, he sat back down at the table, resigned to go through the information they had now while he was still in the mood.

The Leroys rose to power quickly, controlling much of Montreal in an alarmingly short time. They dealt in the usual crime affairs: drugs, illegal gambling, the occasional robbery. 

No extortion, though. That was interesting. Victor made a mental note to come back to that.

Despite being flippant with Yakov’s concerns, the deal with the French was worth looking into. Victor knew that the influence of many French crime families wasn’t what it used to be. A few families were still powerful, but they were nothing compared to the Bratva. What if the Leroys were working with another family to control France? Victor knew Nikolai Plisetsky was happy with the way things were in France; what if this upstart Canadian family was planning on upsetting the status quo?

Suddenly, a furry mass of curly hair tapped Victor lightly on the shoulder. Looking down, he saw Makkachin with her front paws on the edge of his seat, asking for attention. Victor smiled, swinging himself around and rubbing behind her ears.

“Oh, Makka,” he cooed at her. “I have to leave again soon. I’m so sorry, my darling.”

Makkachin barked softly, licking his hand.

“I know, sweetheart, I wish I could take you with me. But it’s much safer to be here. Maybe Yura will come by to play with you?”

Makkachin just stared at him, tilting her head. Guilt washed over Victor at leaving her behind so soon. He was hoping to spend more time with her before the next mission. Victor knew Yuri was more of a cat person, but he never did say no to a playdate with Makka.

Victor sighed, kissing the top of her head. “Wanna go for a walk?”

At the sound of the W Word, Makkachin barked excitedly, tail wagging comically fast. Victor could only laugh. 

Walking with Makkachin was one of the few things he actually looked forward to in a day. When Yakov had taken him in after his parents died all those years ago, it was with the understanding that Victor would train like any other assassin for the Bratva. But never once was Victor given the choice of whether or not he wanted to do it.

The constant barrage of missions, of killing, of _burning_ —it was all becoming too much. Victor’s heart felt like a house of cards, waiting to collapse with just a gentle push.

Makkachin tugged on her leash, picking up the scent of something, and barked softly. Victor smiled in affection, watching her snuffle around a tree next to the sidewalk. She was his one act of rebellion, the one good thing he was allowed to have to himself.

Of course, Yakov had been good to him over the years. Looking back, it was obvious he didn’t know how to be a father so much as a mentor, a teacher. Victor was grateful for everything Yakov did for him—he could easily have become one of those starving orphans he pretended to be on his first mission. 

But Victor was tired. So, so tired. Tired of the pain, of the killing, of the guilt.

Makkachin turned to look back at him, tongue out and panting. Victor let out a shaking breath, but smiled.


	3. They don't know my heart

Nikolai Plisetsky’s home was humble, considering who he was. Comfortable and large—though not obnoxiously so—it had a pleasant, lived in quality that usually put Victor at ease, despite it being filled with armed guards and buzzing with activity. Victor was currently sitting in the living room, on a long gray couch that sank slightly with his weight. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled to the brim, and the carpet was dark brown and soft under his feet. He brought the coffee cup to his lips, taking a careful sip. He had made it himself in the kitchen, feeling quite at home. 

“I can’t believe you’re going to fucking _Canada_.”

Victor didn’t turn around; he recognized the voice instantly, of course. “I go where your grandfather tells me, Yuri.”

Yuri Plisetsky sank onto the other end of the couch, keeping as much distance between the two of them as he could. “Why? You’re not even part of the family. You work for _Yakov_.”

Victor shrugged. “The Pakhan tells Yakov what he wants from me. What am I going to do, say no?”

“You could, if you wanted to,” he said softly. It was so out of character, and the sudden shift in tone made Victor turn to look at him, raising an eyebrow. Yuri was scowling into the floor, refusing to meet Victor’s eyes.

“Why are you so interested all of a sudden?” Victor asked, genuinely curious. Victor had known Yuri for a long time now, long enough to Yuri’s childlike admiration of him to grow into teenage bitterness and scorn. Victor tried not to let it bother him.

“Take me with you,” Yuri said in lieu of a response.

Victor choked on his coffee. “What?” he sputtered.

Yuri wheeled on him, his scowl replaced by frustration. “You heard me! Take me with you! It’s just Canada, right? Nothing happens there, just take me with you this time!”

Victor stared, stunned. A moment passed, and Yuri’s cheeks coloured, though his expression didn’t falter. 

“Absolutely not,” Victor said finally.

Yuri’s cheeks flushed darker. “I could always get Grandpa to order you to take me.”

“Mhm,” Victor hummed in response, sipping his coffee casually. “Something tells me if you could, you wouldn’t be talking to me right now.”

Yuri’s eyes sparked, and for a moment, Victor thought he was going to lunge at him. But instead, Yuri deflated, leaning back into the couch and crossing his arms across his chest. “It’s not fair. Grandpa doesn’t let me do anything, or go on any missions or anything. I can shoot a rifle better than half of the idiots in this house, but he doesn’t let me _do anything_.”

Victor’s lips twitched, suppressing a smile. “Give it time, Yura. Your grandfather just worries about you.” 

Yuri scoffed, but said nothing.

A man appeared in the doorway, making eye contact with Victor and silently nodding his head. Victor sighed, putting his unfinished coffee on the table in front of the couch.

“Duty calls,” he said, standing and looking down at Yuri, who was still sulking. Victor ruffled his hair, earning himself a slap on the hand and a growled “Fuck off, old man!”

Victor was still smirking when he walked into Nikolai Plisetsky’s office. The office spoke of wealth, but not in the obvious, luxurious ways most people would come to expect. There were even more books in the Pakhan’s office than there were in the living room, but Victor knew without looking that they were all first editions. The desk in the middle of the room was mahogany, and on it sat a beautiful silver globe. There were papers strewn across it, but there was a clear order to the chaos. Finally, a single painting hung on the wall; Victor didn’t recognize the artist, but he had a strong suspicion it was straight out of the State Hermitage. Whether or not it was legally acquired wasn’t something Victor cared to know. 

The Pakhan himself had a deceptively placid appearance: at first glance, he simply seemed like a kindly grandfather. Victor did know this to be true, on some level—he had seen him interact with Yuri, and his love for his grandson was genuine and strong. Anyone spending time in his presence, however, would soon realize this was a luxury afforded only to Yuri. Nikolai was, after all, the Pakhan of one of the most powerful crime families on the planet, and he had a commanding aura that slowly engulfed the room, like fog rolling in after a rainy night. 

At the moment, Nikolai was sitting behind his deceptively expensive desk, sorting through the papers on it, not looking up when Victor entered the room. He gestured silently for Victor to sit in one of the armchairs across from the desk, which Victor did. A few moments went by, Victor waiting respectfully for the Pakhan to finish. He didn’t dare use the attitude here that he usually directed at Yakov; he had seen his fair share of the family’s punishments for disrespect, and had no desire to experience it for himself.

Soon enough, Nikolai huffed a loud sigh, putting his papers aside and looking squarely at Victor. “So,” he began, “Yakov has briefed you on the upcoming assignment?”

Victor nodded once.

“Good.” Nikolai leaned back in his chair, still regarding Victor with those sharp eyes. “I expect it to be dealt with swiftly, and quietly. We do not need to raise the alarm for a small time family in North America.”

Victored nodded again. “I understand.”

Nikolai’s eyes never left Victor’s face. “You must understand the need for discretion here. Remember that Yakov took you in after your parents’ accident all those years ago at my suggestion, so that you could be an extension of the family, but not directly a part of it. This cannot be traced back to us. There is no need to start a war in France if we can avoid it.”

 _So if you get caught or killed, we will not have lost a valued asset_. The implication of Nikolai’s words stung Victor as they always did. _You are not a part of the family. You are expendable._

Finally, Nikolai’s gaze shifted back down to the piles of papers on his desk. “Yakov has all the information you will require. I want you to report to me directly when you’re finished.”

Victor stood, hearing the dismissal in Nikolai’s words. Silently, he turned and left, closing the door behind him softly.

Reporting to the Pakhan directly, not going through Yakov? This was new. Victor wondered what it meant, but only for a moment.

For now, he had to prepare.

* * *

A week later found Victor in his Montreal hotel room, pacing slowly while looking at two separate photos. The first was the picture Victor had seen with Yakov, of Jean-Jacques Leroy shaking hands with a stranger in an office surrounded by windows (not the best place for a high profile meeting, but hey, what did Victor know). The photo was a wide shot, taken from a high vantage point. Behind Leroy were an assortment of men and women, presumably bodyguards and high ranking officers. Victor could only assume the other man was a representative from France. He had a wide smile on his face, certainly not the look of a man who had been attempting to take out a rival gang for the past year.

Another photo was Leroy getting out of a nondescript black car in front of a locally owned shop, a few men in suits standing off to the side, one holding the car door open. All in all, not a very helpful photo, but he had asked Yakov to send over everything they had.

Sighing in frustration, Victor tossed the photos on his bed, adding to the already messy pile of files and papers there. He had landed in Montreal a few days ago, and had been spending his time so far pouring over the information for a sign of something, _anything_ , to indicate the sudden shift in power.

So far, though, it seemed to Victor that the two gangs simply decided, at the same time, to start negotiations. Which made no sense; there had to be a catalyst in there somewhere, something to start this chain reaction.

Victor sat heavily in the armchair next to the window. His hotel room offered a pleasant view of the Montreal skyline, and here at night, the city looked alive with its endless series of lights and cars. It was comforting to hear the unending noise from the city; it made Victor feel less alone. He missed Makkachin.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed at his forehead; he’d been at this for two days now. He’d have to come up with something, and soon. The longer he was in the city, the more dangerous the mission became.

Especially because there was a good chance that the Leroys already knew he was there.

Victor still hadn’t figured out how his missions kept getting leaked. It wasn’t even consistent: sometimes the target would be prepared for him, sometimes they wouldn’t. Whatever was going on, it seemed almost random, and it made Victor less sure that it was, in fact, a leak in the Bratva. 

Still sitting, he reached across the small table next to the chair, where another pile of documents were scattered. He had been looking at these same photos for forty eight hours, and they were all beginning to blur together. It’s as if he was expecting something to change just by looking—

The thought hit him like a lightning strike, making him sit up straight. He’d been looking at these same photos for two days, but he was _only_ looking at photos taken from the past week. How could he expect to see a change when he had nothing to compare it to?

A quick call to Yakov later, he was opening his computer and scrolling through the various photos of the Leroy family from the past six months. Of course, if he was looking at photos from a small period in time, how would he ever notice anything changing?

Unfortunately, their surveillance on the Leroys prior to the past week had been abysmal; the family was barely on the Bratva’s radar, and so their information was lacking. Most of the pictures were of Jean-Jacques’s parents, Nathalie and Alain Leroy, who were the current heads of the family. The few pictures of Jean-Jacques on his own were very similar to the ones he already had: surrounded by men in suits, doing various, mafia-son related duties.

Victor picked up a photo from the past week on the desk, comparing it to the one on his computer. He could already feel his heart sinking at the fact that his earth shattering realization was amounting to nothing at all.

He was about to toss the picture back on the desk when something caught his attention. There was a man in this picture—it was the picture of an abandoned lot, a decrepit building the only other thing in view. Jean-Jacques was, as always, surrounded by armed men in well tailored suits (did his parents not trust him to be alone?). There was a man next to him, one that Victor had been assuming was simply part of the protection detail, but looking more closely, the man was much smaller than the others. He was shorter than Leroy was, and slight, his back to the camera. He looked again at the picture on his computer: none of Leroy’s men were that much smaller than him, even going back six months.

Victor’s heart picked back up. Maybe he wasn’t so wrong after all.

He jumped out of the chair and practically ran the short distance to the bed, quickly going through the photos left carelessly there. He was looking, desperately, for anything, _anything_ , that would stand out—

There!

A man off to the side in the picture with the representative from France. At first glance, the man blended in with Leroy’s entourage: a tailored suit to fit his frame, expensive, but not too expensive. His black hair fell softly across his forehead, with large blue rimmed glasses partly obstructing his eyes. Standing passively, he was obviously there simply to blend in, but now that Victor was looking for him, he was shocked at how he could have missed him.

Going through the rest of the photos, it was so obvious now: this man hadn’t shown up in the older photos that Yakov sent, but he was suddenly in every single photo from the past week. In fact, the photo from the coffee shop—the grainy security photo with Leroy meeting an Asian man—it was the same person. Victor wasn’t sure how he could have missed him—the man was stunningly attractive, even in the low quality security footage. But it was like he was doing everything in his power to blend in, to not be noticed.

Victor smiled in triumph, tapping the man’s face. The catalyst. _Found you_.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/138171551@N08/42706439272/in/album-72157668008580037/)

He allowed himself a few moments of victory, looking closer at the man’s face. He really was gorgeous. 

Victor hoped he wouldn’t have to kill him.

* * *

Victor was going to have to kill him.

He pouted, though he knew Yakov couldn’t see it over the phone. “But, Yakov…”

“ _Don’t whine, Victor_ ,” Yakov said sternly. “ _The decision has been made._ ”

Victor sighed dramatically. He hated killing beautiful people; it felt like defacing a work of art. An act against God himself.

When Victor had told Yakov his suspicions—that this strange, beautiful man was the cause of the Leroy deal—Yakov had spoken with the Pakhan. After much deliberation, Nikolai gave the order: kill the catalyst.

“Isn’t this decision a little presumptuous?” Victor asked, lounging on his hotel bed. 

“ _You’re the one who made the connection_ ,” Yakov said, already sounding exasperated. They had barely been talking for five minutes; was this a new record? “ _Nikolai agreed with you, in any case. We know the Yakuza have been hiring tactical specialists for a while now: this man may be a part of that_.”

Victor frowned. The Yakuza, meddling with a small time Canadian crime family? Where was the connection here? “Does this make sense to you?”

“ _Our job isn’t to ask questions_ ,” Yakov scolded. “ _The order has been given and I expect you to follow it. Deal with this as you have been trained._ ”

Rubbing his forehead, Victor sighed. He knew why he had to be the one tasked with killing this beautiful person: if he really was Yakuza, and it was ever discovered that the Bratva ordered the hit, there would be an all out war. Something Nikolai Plisetsky would like to avoid. And seeing as Victor wasn’t _technically_ affiliated with the Bratva—not officially, at least—it would be harder to trace where the hit had originated from. 

It all made sense to Victor. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

But something didn’t add up. Why would the Yakuza be interested in the Leroys? Why would they ensure their joint operation with the French? Were they hoping to form a wide spread alliance? Why them?

Yakov was still talking, Victor belatedly realized. “ _When are you going to do it?_ ” 

“Do wh—” Oh. Do _that_. Victor grimaced, touching a hand to his chest where his soulmark was.“Tonight.”

Yakov made a vague noise of acknowledgement. “ _Then you should be ready. And_ …”

Victor raised his eyebrows. “And…?”

“ _Be careful, Vitya_.” There was a _click_ as Yakov hung up.

Victor took the phone away from his ear and stared at it in surprise. It seemed the old man did care, after all. It sent a warm feeling through Victor’s chest.

Tossing the phone on the bed, he recalled what he had said to Yakov. That he would be doing _that_ tonight. He pulled his half open suitcase across the floor, rummaging through it until he found what he needed: a medium sized torch. 

Time to kill that warm feeling—along with all the others.

* * *

Yuuri pulled his coat tighter, trying to stave of the chill. He was on his way back to his hotel room; he still needed to pack and get everything together before flying out the next day. It was cold, but not much colder than Detroit.

He never thought he’d miss Detroit as much as he did, with its dirty streets and bipolar weather. Montreal was beautiful, he couldn’t deny, but it felt so _different_. It was a feeling Yuuri couldn’t shake, taking root in his brain, his soul. After living in Detroit the past few years, it had slowly become home without Yuuri realizing it. He still remembered the day he told his parents that he wouldn’t be continuing the family business with Mari. Yuuri loved his family, enjoyed working with them, but he didn’t want to be living in his sister’s shadow forever. 

Leaving wasn’t easy, for a number of reasons, including the conditions placed on him by the Yakuza. But he wanted to strike out on his own, make a name for himself; and so, after much debate, negotiation, and concessions, they came to an agreement: Yuuri could leave, so long as he never worked with their enemies, and if they ever sent for him, it was understood he would heel like everyone else.

So far, it hadn’t been a problem. Yuuri hadn’t heard from the _dentai_ much, save for an occasional status update to Minako. And his first job since going solo had gone surprisingly well.

Jean-Jacques Leroy was happy with Yuuri’s work—no, more than happy. He had been _ecstatic_. Not only had he successfully ended the fight with the French, but they had even managed to hash out an agreement to work together, with Yuuri being the mediator. Plus, it had been JJ’s idea to hire Yuuri in the first place. Everything was coming up JJ, it seemed.

Yuuri couldn’t help but smile at the memory of when he told JJ what he had discovered about the French. It had, as most of these things do, come down to one tiny, overlooked detail.

Yuuri had been paid, and officially wrapped things up with JJ and his family, who had insisted on giving him some locally made maple syrup. He wasn’t sure if they were being genuinely nice, or just messing with him. After the William incident, Yuuri wasn’t sure he’d eat pancakes ever again.

Oh, well. Phichit would enjoy it, at least.

Yuuri shivered again as another blast of cold wind ripped through his coat. He shouldn’t have underestimated the stereotype of Canadian winters. He picked up his pace, anxious to get back to the hotel. Google maps showed him a faster way of getting there, so he quickly turned down a dimly lit side street, already having visions of a hot shower and collapsing into bed. 

While Yuuri didn’t have _natural talent_ for tactical planning, he did have the ability to lock himself in a room for five days until the problem his client came to him with had been solved. Unfortunately, this meant he was running on a combined total of seven hours of sleep over the course of the week, and Yuuri was beginning to feel it.

Thankfully, his meeting with the Leroys had happened late in the evening. It had given him some time to rest up a bit.

It also gave him time to writhe in agony as his soulmark burned again.

Tears pricked at his eyes at the memory. No matter how many times it happened, the same feeling of fear plagued him: fear for his soulmate, fear at what was happening to them.

Yuuri was about halfway down the street—only a few minutes away from his hotel room and the sweet relief of his bed—when the bullet went through his shoulder.

He cried out, stumbling forward and landing on one knee. The pain wasn’t immediate; more than anything, his left arm was simply going numb. Warmth flooded down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his shirt in seconds and pooling quickly on the ground underneath him. He turned quickly, and saw the shooter behind him, gun still pointed in his direction. Yuuri locked eyes with him; the man had a piercing cold stare, but his eyes were a beautiful blue. Those eyes cut through him more than any bullet could.

Yuuri should have felt fear—more than that, he should have been _terrified_. This man was clearly here to kill him, had already shot him once—but instead, Yuuri felt a strange sense of anticipation. Like he had been waiting for this his whole life.

The shooter, too, seemed to feel something like his. He hesitated, finger on the trigger but not pulling it. 

Yuuri pushed past this strange feeling, because no matter what, his brain was still screaming at him to _run!_

So he turned and ran.

Minako had trained both him and Mari in self defense, just in case. This training, however, was only really meant as a way to get out of a tricky situation. Hand to hand combat, how to take a knife from an attacker, even how to knock a gun out of someone’s hand. But while Yuuri had more training than the average civilian, he knew he was no match for a professional assassin.

That’s the only thing this man could have been. The gunshot was too quiet, the man’s posture too straight. The white mask over his face had obscured his features, even if his eyes would haunt Yuuri for the rest of his life.

Assuming his life was longer than ten minutes.

Blood was still running down his arm, and he held the wound with his hand, hoping to staunch the bleeding at least a little bit. He heard a few bullets ping off of the ground, off of a garbage can he ran by, but he kept running. Luckily the side street wasn’t a straight shot, and he blindly turned around corners and down alleyways until he had a chance to hide.

He ducked down a litter-strewn alley, slamming himself against a wall to catch his breath. He was still holding his wounded shoulder, and he shut his eyes tightly as the pain finally caught up to him. 

And the fear, too.

He peeled his blood soaked hand away from the hole in his shoulder, trying to assess the damage. It looked like the bullet went straight through. That was good, on the one hand: he wouldn’t have to dig it out. But it also meant he would bleed out faster.

What would a professional hitman want with Yuuri? Who had he pissed off? It couldn’t be the _dentai_ ; they only cared if he took jobs from direct competitors, and he had cleared the job from the Leroys with them before he took it—

A sudden noise from above, and Yuuri looked up just as the assassin dropped down from the fire escape of the building in front of him, landing on his feet like a cat.

They were barely a few feet apart, and Yuuri could see his silver hair glinting in the moonlight. Those blue eyes betrayed no emotion, no thought. The gun was raised again, pointed directly at his face.

Yuuri reacted on pure instinct, falling back on his (somewhat limited) training. He lurched forward, crossing the small distance between them, grabbing the assassin’s arm and shoving it upwards. The gun went off in the air, and a gloved hand came around and clocked him across the jaw. Yuuri released the assassin’s arm, stumbling backwards as pain bloomed across his face. The gun was suddenly pressing against his chest, and Yuuri felt his blood turn to ice.

There it was again: a split second of hesitation. This man was clearly a professional, yet he wasn’t pulling the trigger. Yuuri didn’t understand what it meant, but that split second gave him another chance. He dove for the gun, grabbing the assassin’s arm, attempting to wrestle it out of his hand. The next punch hit Yuuri in the gut, and he doubled over with the force of it. The assassin smashed him across the cheek with gun, and that sent Yuuri sprawling on the ground. His glasses flew off his face, and he could hear them shatter somewhere in the dark.

The assassin wasted no time walking towards Yuuri as he lay on his side, trying not to vomit. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw the metallic glint of the gun pointed at him yet again. He couldn’t rely on the assassin’s strange behaviour this time. He whirled around, ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder and head, using the momentum to swing his leg and kick the gun out of the assassin’s hand. It clattered on the ground, sliding out of sight.

_If you’re on the ground, your legs are your most powerful weapon._

Yuuri would have to thank Minako for that, assuming he lived to see her again.

He was expecting the assassin to be knocked off guard, but he didn’t so much as blink. Instead, he kicked Yuuri once, twice, three times in the ribs. There was an audible _crack_ , and he curled further into himself on instinct to protect his exposed side. As the assassin’s leg came for a fourth, Yuuri wrapped his arms around it and _pulled_ , brining the assassin down to the ground.

There was a woosh of air as the breath left his lungs, but before Yuuri could get up, the assassin was on top of him, wrapping his hands around his throat. 

_No no no no!_ Yuuri started to panic, all his training fleeing his mind at an instant. His parents and Minako had warned him what to do in this situation, but it was impossible to think around the all consuming terror of not being able to breathe. He thrashed desperately, hitting the assassin wherever he could. His hands flew out to the man’s chest, frantically trying to push him off, and he felt the warmth of his chest as he pushed under the collar of his shirt.

Suddenly, a brilliant light enveloped them, seeming to emanate from where Yuuri’s hand was planted on the assassin’s chest. It blinded him, and the assassin’s hands loosened their death grip. 

Still on top of each other, the light shone through like a spotlight, making it so bright around them it almost looked like the middle of the day. It was a dark blue at first, then a blinding purple. Yuuri was entranced, his terror temporarily taking a back seat to the feeling of awe. Though the assassin’s hands were still around his throat, they were not longer choking him, seeming to be just an taken aback as Yuuri was.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the light went out.

The assassin made a choking noise, finally letting Yuuri go completely before falling back, landing on his backside with his hands splayed behind him. Yuuri gasped greedily for air, coughing so violently he almost retched. Blinking tears from his eyes and breathing heavily, he saw the light begin to fade. Yuuri was shaking, stunned.

It couldn’t be.

It _couldn’t_ be.

The assassin’s eyes were wide, shocked. It was the first emotion Yuuri had seen from him since the bullet had hit him. Yuuri sat up slightly, leaning on his good arm, staring at the man in front of him. His blue eyes still pierced him, but they were no longer cold.

“What—you—” The assassin was still staring at him, breathing hard. Then, just as suddenly as he arrived, he sprang to his feet and ran, disappearing like a ghost.

Yuuri stared at the empty space in front of him, then collapsed as his arm gave out from under him. His ribs screamed in protest. Broken? Bruised? He couldn’t tell.

His shoulder was still bleeding, creating a small pool beneath him. Yuuri wasn’t sure how much longer he had until he passed out; he felt awake now, the adrenaline still running through him, but the crash was imminent. 

The wall of the alley wasn’t too far behind him, so he scooted over and propped himself up against it, leaning his head against the hard stones. More blood was dripping down the side of his head, and it was beginning to run into his eye. Swiping it away, he pulled out his phone from his pants pocket. The screen was shattered, but luckily it still came to life when he touched it. He had to squint at the contacts without his glasses, but he found the one he needed quickly enough and hit _call_.

It barely rang twice when it clicked. “ _Yuuri?_ ”

“Hey, Phichit.” Yuuri’s voice was rough and hoarse, cracking on the words. It made him cough harshly as it rubbed at his burning throat the wrong way. “Are you…” Yuuri blinked slowly, feeling suddenly light headed. “Are you still in Quebec City?”

“ _Yes, of course_ ,” Phichit replied, voice barely concealing his obvious panic. There was music in the background, the kind of bass pounding beat that usually accompanied nightclubs. It had been loud when Phichit had first picked up, but it was fading now. “ _What happened? Where are you?_ ”

Shit. Where _was_ he? He was so focused on getting away, he had no idea where he ended up.

“I...I don’t know.” It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Blood was flowing from his shoulder and roaring in his ears, sweat running down his face in rivers. The grime covered street light was suddenly too bright. Bright like….

Phichit was practically yelling in his ear, but Yuuri wasn’t listening. He was pulling the collar of his shirt down, far enough that he could look at his chest.

His soulmark wasn’t black anymore. Yuuri quickly wiped away the blood that covered it. It was a dark blue, almost indigo, like the colour of the sky just as night was falling. It was a beautiful colour, in Yuuri’s opinion, even if it was stained with blood.

Yuuri only had one thought before he passed out.

_My soulmate just tried to kill me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _dentai_ : The Yakuza call themselves "ninkyo dentai" (which literally means "chivalrous organization"), so Yuuri is referring to the Yakuza here


	4. Say a prayer for the wounded heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that in this chapter are a few mentions of suicide (made briefly and in passing). If this is something that is triggering for you, please read with caution.

Victor ran.

He ran until his legs gave out, until he was breathing so hard it was more like gasping. It was late, and the Montreal streets were still bustling, but he found himself in another dimly lit alley so similar to the one he just fled from. Putting a hand on the filthy wall of the alley, he sank to his knees and moved his mask out of the way to vomit on the ground.

He felt—

He felt—

Oh God, he _felt._

His emotions were hitting him like a truck, all at once, flooding him. Tears streamed down his face, uncontrollable. He gasped a sob, putting a hand to his mouth to try to stem the flow. 

Normally, when he burned his soulmark away, it took less than a week to begin to heal. It healed quickly, much more quickly than the average wound. But when it started to heal, it brought his emotions back in waves. They were intense, and hit him twice as hard as they normally would: anger became rage, sadness became anguish, fear became all consuming terror. But they came back one at a time, making him an emotional mess for days, but it was something he could control.

This...this was a hundred times worse, a thousand. 

He ripped open his coat, buttons flying. Pulling down his shirt, he saw it: his soulmark had almost fully regenerated. The emotions that normally took days to come back were now pouring into him faster than he could process.

Even amidst the chaos swirling inside him, Victor did see how his soulmark had changed: it had become a bright purple, nearly pink in its intensity.

So it was true. He really had just shot his soulmate.

Victor retched again, overcome with despair. All these years of pain, of hurting himself, of hurting his _soulmate_ —

The despair turned into hot rage, boiling his stomach. He wiped his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, ripped off the mask, and stood. He was calm suddenly, the kind of calm that came before a hurricane, before a typhoon. It swirled in his stomach, churning, waiting. He scrubbed the last of his tears off his face roughly, not caring about how it rubbed the irritated skin.

He started walking.

Luckily he had an inkling of where he was. It took him a while, but he walked without fail to his destination: a rundown motel not far away from the city center. No one approached him; with his coat flying open and the dark look on his face, people gave him a wide berth. He walked until he found the room number he wanted, and banged on the door.

Sounds of shuffling came from the room, along with some quiet Russian curses, and Yakov opened the door. His eyes widened at the sight of Victor. “What are you _doing_ here, Vitya?”

Victor pushed past him. It took all of his control, all of his years of dealing with his surging emotions, to keep the rage from spilling over. Yakov closed the door, locking it behind him. “You know we’re not supposed to meet during a mission—”

Victor whirled on him, silently pulling up his shirt, showing Yakov his newly coloured soulmark. Yakov breathed in sharply. “Who…?”

“My target, Yakov,” Victor spat out, yanking his shirt back down. “He was my _fucking target!_ ”

The curse cut through the air sharply, and Yakov looked shaken. It was an odd look on him, one Victor wasn’t used to seeing. Any other time, it might have made him feel uncomfortable. Now, however, he only felt one thing, and it wasn’t going away easily.

Victor closed the distance between them, balling his hands into fists at his side. He got in Yakov’s face, and for once, Yakov didn’t argue. “What was the point, Yakov?’ Victor asked quietly. Dangerous. “All these years, I’ve been playing along with your rules. Burn the soulmark, burn the feelings. Burn the _weakness_.” Victor laughed, the sound dark and humorless. “It didn’t matter. They all came back when I met him. So tell me, Yakov: _what was the goddamn point?!_ ”

Yakov sighed, running a hand over his head. “I’ll tell you everything. But later. Once you are in control again.”

Victor’s expression turned dark. “No, I want to know, and I want to know _now_.”

“And if I thought you could listen to me, I would. I’ve coached you through this before, Vitya. I will do it again. Then, we can talk.”

The rage Victor had been feeling suddenly died, like a fire that was snuffed out. It left him as suddenly as it came on, and it left a vacuum for—

“Oh God,” Victor choked out, wrapping his arms around himself and sinking to his knees. “Oh God, Yakov, I _shot_ him, I shot my soulmate, what if he’s _dead_ , just dead in the street because of me—” He sobbed loudly, the tears returning, streaming down his face and falling onto the floor.

Yakov took him gently—any other time, Victor would have been amazed at the fact that Yakov even knew what gently meant—and guided him off the floor to the bed.

“You need to ride it out. It will pass.”

Victor nodded, not really understanding, the complex cocktail of emotions inside him swirling like a storm, threatening to tear him apart. Yakov’s voice was soothing, though, and it acted as an anchor for him.

He spent the night alternating between blinding rage and crushing sadness. Sometimes, however, it was a strange mix of everything, every emotion he could ever feel, and he just _felt_ too much, everything was too much oh God oh _God_ —

“Where’s my gun?” Victor asked at one point, lying in Yakov’s bed with his arm across his face.

“I don’t know,” Yakov answered calmly, sitting in an overstuffed armchair by the door. 

“Then where’s yours?”

Yakov snorted. “I’m not giving you a weapon, Vitya.”

Victor sprang from the bed in one smooth motion, looming over Yakov. “Yeah? Fine. I don’t need a weapon, and you know it.” Victor’s eyes were bright with anger, and they burned into Yakov. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands, I’ll rip you to pieces, I’ll fucking do it and you won’t be able to stop me.”

Yakov looked up at him, face betraying nothing. 

And then, as quickly as the rage had come, it left again. He sank to the floor again, pressing his hands to his eyes. Yakov was there, kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders. Victor surged forward, grasping onto Yakov’s shirt like a lifeline. “Please, Yakov, I can’t _take this anymore_ , please, I just want it to end, _please_ —”

And so on.

The cycle felt endless, and Victor was exhausted. He had been crying all night, broken sobs and loud pleading to just make to stop, it didn’t matter how, just _make it stop_. Victor couldn't quell the surge of emotions that battered him mercilessly, like waves from an ocean. Eventually, he fell into an uneasy sleep just as the sun was coming through the blinds.

When Victor woke, the sun was gone again, but Yakov was still there. He looked as exhausted as Victor felt, and that brought on a wave of guilt. It was strong, stronger than normal, but not so much that it rendered him paralyzed anymore.

Yakov had him take a shower, and there was food waiting for him when he got out. They ate in silence, Victor feeling equal parts embarrassed and ashamed. 

When they were done, Yakov sat back, looking at Victor steadily. Victor was beginning to feel….well, not normal, but getting there. It seemed to show on his face, because Yakov sighed and said, “I owe you an explanation.”

Victor said nothing, staring back at Yakov.

They waited in silence for a moment before Yakov began. “When Nikolai and I were young, and his father was the Pakhan, there was a major operation in America. Very high profile, very sensitive. Even Nikolai was not privy to all of the details at the time. There was a man, Arkady, who was leading it. I do not know all of the details; despite my friendship with Nikolai, I was never in the inner circle, so I only heard bits and pieces.”

“The operation in America was supposed to secure the Bratva’s hold there, and everything was going to plan. Until Arkady encountered his soulmate.”

Victor just nodded. The meeting between soulmates was earth shattering, life changing. Victor knew that now.

“I don’t know who she was: an assassination target, a rival gang member, a simple whore. It didn’t matter. Arkady met her, and the operation completely fell apart. The family lost many men and even more territory. It took years for the mess to be cleaned up; Nikolai was still dealing with it when he became Pakhan.”

Yakov let out a shuddering breath, turning his head towards the window. “I told you that burning your soulmark was standard procedure. Helping you think clearly, keeping your emotions at bay. But that wasn’t the whole truth.”

Victor blinked, stunned. “But….you always told me it was a Bratva technique.”

“It is, in some circles. But that’s not all.” Yakov fidgeted with his fork, something Victor had never seen him do.

“Vitya….you were told your parents were killed in an accident.”

Victor nodded, the blood rushing in his ears, heart pounding.

“That was a lie. They were assassinated by the Bratva."

The words didn’t make sense, not at first. Yakov said nothing, letting Victor digest the information. For the first time since that fateful meeting in the alley, Victor felt numb. “What…?”

“Your father was a low ranking member. When your mother got pregnant, they stole from the family and ran. It took years to find them, but the Pakhan was relentless. When it was over, Nikolai brought you to me, asked me to take you in. But there was one condition.”

The air was becoming too heavy; the walls felt like they were closing in around them. “One...condition?”

Yakov nodded, his expression grim. “I had been training assassins and hitmen for the family for years. But they wanted someone different, someone…..off the books, if you will. Someone who couldn’t be associated directly with the family, if need be.”

“And, on the heels of finishing with the Arkady mess, Nikolai wanted to use you. To see if burning off a soulmark would make for better assassins: no emotions, no mess, no soulmate to interfere. It was your punishment, because of your blood.”

Victor couldn’t breathe. Clutching his chest, he stared at Yakov, emotions rushing through him again: confusion, anger, and most prominently, betrayal. It cut deep into him, and he could only stare at Yakov. 

Yakov, who had raised him since he was four.

Yakov, who had been like a father to him.

Yakov, who had lied to him his whole life.

“Why are you telling me this now?” Victor practically whispered.

“Because you deserve to know the truth,” Yakov said softly. “I never wanted to lie to you, Vitya. But this was the price for your life. I hope you can understand that, someday.”

There was silence as Victor let the truth sink in. But in the end, he could only laugh bitterly. “So I was Plisetsky’s little experiment, huh?” He stood abruptly, causing his chair to topple over. “And it didn’t even work.”

All these years of burning off his soulmark, of killing his emotions, of hurting his soulmate…..

All for nothing.

Victor ran a shaking hand through his hair, anger turning his blood hot. He grabbed his ruined coat, pulling it on and shoving his feet in his shoes. “I can’t—I have to go.”

He was halfway out the door when a hand on his arm stopped him. “I understand that you’re upset, Vitya,” Yakov said. “And I know you’re angry with me. But don’t do anything rash. You’re still recovering from your soulmark. Going after the Bratva will only get you killed.”

Victor looked over his shoulder at him: Yakov’s face was tired and lined, his eyes pained. This was still the man who raised him, the man who taught him everything he knew. But Victor’s heart was a mess of feelings and confusion, and he couldn’t deal with Yakov’s apology.

So he yanked his arm away, saying nothing. Yakov’s hand fell to his side. He was still watching as Victor walked away, shoulders hunched against the Montreal wind.

* * *

Yuuri woke to realize his bed was _really_ uncomfortable.

Which was annoying, because he was staying at one of the best—and most expensive—hotels in the area. Even if he wasn’t paying for it (the Leroys had insisted on covering his bill, booking him in a nice hotel after hearing the name of the motel Yuuri was originally going to). Normally Yuuri didn’t like to cause a fuss, but he was definitely going to speak to a manager about this.

Opening his eyes, he groaned softly as his shoulder burned. The bed was so bad it was giving him back pain? He was _definitely_ going to speak to the manager. Maybe even the owner.

He frowned as he looked at the ceiling. It was bright, too bright, and a stark white colour. Had he forgotten to turn the light off last night....?

“Yuuri?”

Yuuri turned his head, his body feeling too heavy to move, and saw Phichit standing next to the bed. What was he doing here?

“Phichit…?” Yuuri’s voice was rough, and the single word made him cough.

“Oh God, Yuuri!” Phichit eyes were filling with tears, and he threw himself into a hug around Yuuri’s shoulders. He gasped in pain as the movement jostled his shoulder.

Phichit pulled back instantly, hands hovering over him. “Sorry, I’m sorry! I was just...so worried about you.” Phichit hastily rubbed at his eyes, but a few tears tracked down his cheeks.

“What…?” And then it hit him.

The assassin. His soulmate. 

Memories of the night before came rushing back, and he shut his eyes tightly. He remembered fighting, the blinding light as his soulmark ignited, and then calling Phichit…

“Where am I?” Yuuri croaked.

“The hospital...the name’s in French, I don’t remember exactly—”

“ _What?_ ” Yuuri exclaimed, and then dissolving into a harsh coughing fit that left his throat and chest burning.

“Hey, be careful, your throat’s messed up pretty bad.” Phichit offered him a glass of water with a straw, and Yuuri drank carefully from it.

“Phichit, how could you take me to a public hospital?” Yuuri said after his breathing was under control, distress evident in his weak voice.

Phichit set the cup back on the table next to his bed a little harder than necessary, anger flashing quickly in his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, they didn't cover this in school yet. Treating gunshot wounds while your best friend bleeds to death in an alley in Quebec was _next_ semester.” 

Yuuri flinched.

“You were unconscious by the time I got to you,” Phichit continued, voice a bit softer. “You’re lucky I know how to track your phone, by the way. And you were in a _huge_ puddle of blood, I thought you were gonna bleed out before the paramedics got there—” Phichit’s lip quivered slightly, and he pressed his lips into a thin line.

Yuuri was instantly overcome with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It’s just….public hospitals are dangerous. They make me nervous.”

Phichit sat heavily in the chair behind him, looking down at his still shaking hands. “I know, but what was I supposed to do?”

Yuuri leaned his head back. Despite just waking up, he felt exhausted. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Phichit shook his head. “Look, I owe your family everything. You know that. But you’re my best friend, school tuition or no. And if I have to drag you to a public hospital to keep you from dying—” His voice broke on the word—“then I’m going to do it. And if you don’t like it, then you can just suck it up, ok?!”

When Phichit had demanded he accompany Yuuri on his first solo mission, Yuuri had, of course, refused. There was no way he was putting Phichit in that kind of danger. But of course, a mere day before Yuuri was driving to Quebec, Phichit had come to him with his own plan.

“Wow, Yuuri, guess what!” Phichit had grinned mischievously. “You remember Michael, from that party I took you to—”

“More like _dragged_ ,” Yuuri had muttered.

Phichit had ignored him. “Well, he knows a guy in Quebec City and they’re throwing this awesome party there, and he totally invited me for the week! Crazy, right? Oh, aren’t you going in that direction too?”

His smile had been just a tad too innocent, but now, Yuuri was thankful he hadn’t tried harder to stop him.

Yuuri offered him a tired smile. “Thanks, Phichit.” It wasn’t enough, not really, but it would do for now.

Phichit gave him a shaky smile in return.

There was a clock on the wall, but without his glasses, Yuuri couldn’t make it out. “How long have I been here?”

Phichit pulled out his phone. “A few days.”

Yuuri sighed, running a hand over his face. It hit him, then, how quiet it was. Looking around, he saw he was the only patient in the room. “Is this...a private room?”

Phichit nodded, unlocking his phone and scrolling through it. “JJ arranged for it as soon as he heard what happened. I’m actually supposed to call him now that you’re awake.”

Just then, a doctor came in with a clipboard, and Phichit took the opportunity to duck out of the room.

The doctor’s English was halting and heavily accented, but Yuuri managed to get the gist of it: gunshot wound to the shoulder, a few broken ribs, and damage to his trachea. All in all, not bad considering who he had crossed paths with.

The doctor said a few more things about recovery that Yuuri only half listened to. He was too busy with the memory of the light of their soulmarks, the way the assassin’s blue eyes stared right through him….

Phichit was suddenly back, hanging up the phone as he walked in. “JJ’s on his way.”

Yuuri nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The doctor had disappeared, but Yuuri was too caught up in his memories to care what was going on around him.

His soulmate…..his soulmate had tried to kill him. Yuuri didn’t know how to even start to process that. More than anything, he wanted to get out of this hospital room and out of the city. 

But….where would he go? He couldn’t go back to Japan, not with this random killer after him. He couldn’t stay in Canada either, though. Would he go back to Detroit? He’d already put Phichit in enough danger as it is…..

Yuuri thought back to what Phichit said, about owing his family everything. 

When Yuuri was twenty one, he left the safety of his home for the first time. Detroit had been a choice taken on a bit of whim: it was far, far enough to finally escape his sister’s shadow. America had been the obvious choice, ripe with crime and opportunity. The Yakuza hadn’t opposed it—though Yuuri’s family wasn’t technically a part of the Yakuza, and he didn’t technically answer to them. But he still knew better than to make the decision without consulting them.

Living in Detroit, alone, had been difficult. It had taken some time—and some recommendations from his parents—before his presence registered at all in North America. The Leroys were his first independent client in all the time he’d been on the continent, though he’d had some work thrown his way by the _dentai_ every now and then.

He’d met Phichit completely by accident.

Walking home one night from another late night research session in Starbucks, he’d stumbled across a young man being mugged in an alley. Yuuri remembered analyzing the situation, seeing the untrained assailants holding their guns incorrectly, as they demanded the wallet of the boy in front of them. A swift kick to the legs of the taller one, knock his gun out of his reach, use the shock and surprise to grab the other man—

Yuuri wasn’t formally trained, not really. But he wasn’t just a civilian, either.

Somehow, Yuuri had ended up taking the shaking boy back to his apartment, not wanting to go the police (the less they knew of him, the better). The boy introduced himself as Phichit Chulanont, eighteen years old, first year biology student with med school in his future. Looking up at Yuuri with tears in his eyes, he cried into Yuuri’s shirt when the stress of the situation had finally overwhelmed him.

Yuuri had let Phichit stay with him. It was only meant to be for one night, but one night turned into two...then a week...and suddenly they were living together. 

And once he’d confided in Yuuri about his mountain of student debt, Yuuri had made a few calls, and Phichit never had to worry about money again.

Suddenly, the door to his room swung open, smacking off the wall loudly and jolting Yuuri back to the present. JJ walked in, smiling sheepishly at the noise he’d made. Yuuri could see two armed guards outside his room as JJ gingerly closed the door behind him.

“Ah, Yuuri, I'm so happy to see you're awake.” JJ strode over, pulling up another chair on the other side of Yuuri’s bed, folding his long frame into it. He was in street clothes this time, just a plain red t-shirt with black sleeves and dark jeans. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Yuuri replied. “Tired, though.”

“I imagine you would be,” JJ said, voice going uncharacteristically soft. He folded his hands in his lap, looking unusually vulnerable. “Yuuri, I’m...I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

Yuuri blinked. “Why are you sorry? You didn’t try to have me killed.” _Hopefully_ , Yuuri thought silently.

“No, of course not! We would never do that!” JJ leaned forward, eyes suddenly sharp and dangerous. “Don’t worry, we’re going to find the bastard that did this to you. The idea that someone might be coming after you because you helped us….” He trailed off, looking off to the side. Without his usual bravado, Yuuri thought JJ looked younger than he was. “We won’t let this slide.”

This was a development that Yuuri wasn’t prepared for. He hadn’t expected JJ to offer to be his white knight. In fact, Yuuri had assumed that once he’d been paid, he would never see JJ again, bullet wound or not. 

Yuuri remembered that warm feeling he had, back at the warehouse where he and JJ had first met. Maybe it wasn’t so misplaced after all. It seemed that JJ really was a good guy, maple syrup torture methods aside.

But…. “I appreciate that, JJ. Really, I do. But I think….I think I need to deal with this on my own.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri saw the shocked look Phichit shot him. JJ, too, seemed confused. “What? Why?”

Yuuri let out a small sigh. How could he explain to JJ that the assassin was his soulmate, without _actually_ saying that?

“I think…..I might know who did this,” Yuuri started, trying to find the right words to convince JJ. “And I don’t want to involve your family in anything dangerous.”

JJ waved a hand dismissively. “We can handle it. If you know who it is, you should tell me. We’ll make sure they never hurt you again.”

Yuuri winced a bit at that. That was exactly what he _didn’t_ want. He wanted to find his soulmate on his own, despite the fact that they just tried to kill him.

But they could have...and they didn’t. That must have meant something. And Yuuri needed to figure out what.

“Please,” Yuuri said, trying not to sound too much like he was begging, “please let me handle this.”

JJ looked at him for a moment before sighing loudly, leaning back in the cheap hospital chair. “Alright, Yuuri, if you insist.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and taking a card out, handing it to Yuuri. “This is my personal number. If anything happens and you need backup, you give me a call, ok?”

Yuuri smiled gratefully, taking the card. “I will. And...thank you. For everything.”

JJ smiled widely at him. “No need to thank me. It’s just...JJ style!” He laughed loudly at his own joke. “Well, I need to get going, and you need to rest. Don’t worry, the room is taken care of for as long as you need it.” With that, he stood and walked to the door. “Oh,” he called over his shoulder, “and we’re putting our guys at your door 24/7 until you’re released. Non negotiable, ok?” He winked, opening the door and walking out.

Yuuri sighed, his eyelids feeling heavy. “He’s a bit much, but he’s a good guy at heart.”

Phichit sprang to his feet, getting in Yuuri’s face before he was done speaking. “What did you mean you _might know who it is?_ Why didn’t you say anything to me about this?”

Yuuri grimaced. He shouldn’t have said that.

But….Phichit had saved his life. He deserved to know. Wordlessly, Yuuri pulled down the collar of his hospital gown as far down as he could, revealing the top part of his now blue soulmark.

Phichit was silent as he stared at the mark. The only sound in the room was the steady sounds of machines, the _drip drip_ of Yuuri’s IV. A few minutes of silence went by before Phichit finally reacted.

“ _Fuck_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it so far! Chapter 5 will be posted in the near future. In the mean time, comments and constructive criticism are always welcome and encouraged!


	5. Bring the broken back to life

The door to the coffee shop shut quietly behind Yuuri, the little bell at the top tinkling, signaling his arrival. After the cold air outside, the warmth of the cafe hit Yuuri like wind, ruffling his hair and fogging up his glasses a bit. He scanned the room, unsure what exactly he was looking for—

There.

Sitting away from the windows, tucked into the back corner of the café, was a man. A man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes.

Yuuri couldn’t suppress his shiver.

It had been a month: a month since his soulmate tried to kill him. His hospital stay hadn’t been too long, thankfully, and he managed to convince Phichit to go back to Detroit without him so he wouldn’t miss too many more classes. In the meantime, JJ had offered to let Yuuri stay in his spacious apartment while he recovered enough to travel. Yuuri hadn’t stayed there long either, however; being in Montreal, where the assassin knew where he was, was beginning to make him feel antsy— _exposed_. Just because the assassin had been his soulmate, it didn’t mean he wouldn’t be coming after him again.

As Yuuri was checking in to yet another motel in rural Quebec (barely managing to order a room with his meager French), he’d received a text:

_Can we meet?_

Yuuri remembered staring at his phone, head swimming with the implication of the message on it. There was no doubt in his mind that this was from the assassin—no, from his soulmate. This was a burner phone, though; how had he managed to find Yuuri’s number?

Maybe his soulmate was better at his job than he was.

It had taken time, a long time, for Yuuri to respond. There hadn’t been any other texts, just the single message staring at him like an executioner’s axe. There was no way he could meet this man, right? After all, he’d tried to kill him—probably would have succeeded, under any other circumstances.

And yet…

Despite the constant travel, Yuuri’s shoulder was healing well. He no longer needed a sling for his arm, which was good, but his ribs were still pretty banged up. If his soulmate was simply playing the long con to lure him out, Yuuri wouldn’t be able to fight back this time. Hell, he could barely fight back when he was at full strength.

Phichit, of course, thought he was insane for even considering the idea. “ _He tried to kill you, Yuuri!_ ” Phichit had cried when Yuuri had first told him of the message on his phone. “ _There’s no way you can trust this guy, soulmate or not!_ ”

And yet…

Now, those blue eyes were staring off to the side, his chin in his palm. It was a look of nonchalance, but to Yuuri, it was clearly an act (though it was a good one, Yuuri could admit). 

God, his soulmate was _beautiful._

He was so beautiful it hurt. Yuuri didn’t consider himself a particularly vain person, but he could appreciate beauty like everyone else. The man’s short silver hair was perfect for his pale skin, the hand cupping his cheek thin and elegant. Yuuri watched his profile, the strong cheekbones and straight nose, drinking in the sight of him despite the hard hammering of his heart. 

Yuuri didn’t move from the doorway of the cafe, ignoring the stares he was getting. The location his soulmate had suggested was in Ontario, a comfortable enough distance from both Montreal and Detroit that Yuuri had decided it was probably as safe as it could be. 

The man’s eyes scanned the shop, finally sliding over to the front door and to where Yuuri was standing. As soon as their eyes met, his soulmate sat up straight, as if he’d been shocked. His expression was carefully arranged into a neutral expression, but Yuuri was tempted to turn and run all the same.

But there it was: that pull between soulmates. Yuuri felt drawn to this man, this assassin, his would-be killer, even if his brain was screaming at him to _get out!_ His not quite healed shoulder pulsed in half remembered pain, and his ribs ached. 

And yet—

Yuuri found himself walking, slowly, to the table where the man sat, his eyes never leaving Yuuri’s face. Slowly, slowly, like two planets orbiting each other, like two stars on the verge of collapse.

Eventually, Yuuri found himself standing behind the empty chair, staring down at his soulmate, who hadn’t moved from his ramrod straight position. Yuuri pulled the chair back, easing into it carefully, mindful of his ribs. Settling in, Yuuri couldn’t help but feel the awkwardness of the situation, so strong it began to eclipse the trepidation and fear.

The man cleared his throat, looking away suddenly. He had a cup in front of him, but it looked untouched. They sat in silence for a few minutes before his soulmate finally broke it.

“I...I don’t know what to say,” he began, Russian accent surprising Yuuri slightly. It was gorgeous, like the rest of him. Yuuri knew he should be afraid; or at the very least, he should be angry. But deep in his heart, Yuuri could only feel gratitude: that his soulmate hadn’t killed him, that he had reached out, that they were even meeting at all. It was rare for two soulmates to find each other, rarer still for them to fall in love. A soulmate didn’t necessarily mean a lover, or even a friend: but rather someone to—hopefully, in one way or another—make you happy. Make you whole.

 _One step at a time_ , Yuuri thought.

“You could start with your name,” Yuuri said softly.

Those blue eyes looked at him for a moment, before breaking away again, looking down at his folded hands which were resting on the table. “It’s Victor.”

“Ok, Victor,” Yuuri said, smiling a bit. “I’m Yuuri.” _Though you probably already knew that._

Victor nodded once, running a shaking hand through his hair. There was a tension between them, palatable in the air. Yuuri had a sneaking suspicion that the people around them could feel it too, and that it was the reason the wait staff hadn’t approached them.

“You must be angry,” Victor finally said, fighting to keep his voice steady. Yuuri could hear the cracks in it, how it wavered just slightly. “I wouldn’t blame you for that. You should hate me for what I did. For what I’ve been doing to you, all these years.”

Now that Yuuri was up close, he saw how disheveled Victor looked: his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them for a few days, and there were dark circles under his eyes, made even more evident against his pale complexion. The bangs over his eye were a little limp, as if the life had been taken out of him.

“You’re right,” Yuuri said, and Victor visibly flinched. “I should be angry, or scared, or something like that. But…I’m not.”

Victor stared at him openly this time, eyes wide. 

“Nobody really knows how this soulmate stuff works, but…” Yuuri touched a hand to his chest, where the matching half of his soulmark lay. “What I know is that you’re supposed to be a part of my life, one way or another. My soulmate is my other half, and…” At this, Yuuri clutched the fabric of his jacket, eyes suddenly filling with tears. “And I’ve been so scared for you, all this time. I’m honestly relieved to see that you’re alright.” Yuuri couldn’t help but laugh a little, swiping at his eyes under his (new) glasses. 

Victor’s mouth opened a little in shock, but said nothing.

Settling his glasses on his face, Yuuri offered Victor a small smile. “You could have killed me back there. Hell, you probably could have killed me a million times over since then. But you haven’t. That must mean something.” Yuuri shrugged, feeling slightly more at ease as he continued to talk. “And I know it’s crazy, that _I’m_ crazy, but this whole soulmark thing is pretty crazy on its own, isn’t it?

“So despite all of this, I’m…” Yuuri faltered a bit, sorting out his feelings as he talked through them. “I’m willing to forgive you. For everything. And I’m willing to give you a chance.”

“But…” Victor’s still-folded hands tightened, turning the skin there even paler. “How can you possibly forgive me so easily? You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

Yuuri shrugged again. “You’re right. I don’t know you. But I’d like to.”

“Because I’m supposed to be your soulmate?” Victor asked quietly.

“It’s more than that.” Yuuri knew the words were true as soon as they left his mouth. Yes, they were drawn to each other because they were soulmates, because of the mark that tied them together. But this man, this person in front of him, was suffering. Had been suffering for a long time. And it broke Yuuri’s heart.

“And I have a feeling…we have more in common than you think.” Yuuri reached tentatively across the table, gently touching Victor’s hands, still folded in a death grip. Victor stared down at the contact, but his hands loosened a bit at the touch. 

Victor looked back up at Yuuri, pain still evident in his eyes. “So what…” He swallowed thickly. “What should we do?”

Yuuri grinned, his heart feeling light despite everything.

“How about dinner?”

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky’s phone skidded across the comforter on his bed where he had thrown it, sliding off the edge and clattering to the floor.

It had been over a month since Victor went dark, and Yuri was _livid_. 

His grandfather, though, didn't seem to be as concerned. Yuri had overheard (by eavesdropping) a conversation between him and Yakov in his office after Yakov had returned—alone—from Quebec. Apparently the mission had grown more complicated, and Victor needed more time in order to make sure his cover wasn’t blown.

Bullshit. Yuri didn’t believe that for a second. It was more than likely that Victor had screwed up somehow, and Yakov was covering for him. Victor was practically a senior citizen, after all: he was probably going senile or something.

Still, they were coming up on nearly a month and a half with no word from Victor. Yakov still seemed to think that this was normal, but there’s no way Victor would just drop off the grid for this long because a mission was suddenly “more complicated”.

But it wasn’t liked Yuri _cared_ or anything. Victor didn’t usually send him messages while he was out on a mission, and this was no different. And his rage _definitely_ wasn’t a cover for the underlying worry that had been plaguing him since Victor had missed his check in with his grandfather. Absolutely not.

“If only he had taken me with him,” Yuri said to no one in particular. Potya continued to doze on his bed, effectively ignoring his mini meltdown. “If only—”

Yuri stopped, considering his line of thought. If he had been with Victor, he almost definitely could have stopped the mission from failing. He was trained by the Bratva, by the Pakhan himself. If only his grandfather would let him out on missions, he could prove it to him.

An idea began forming in Yuri's mind, something he couldn't even believe he was considering. It was too late to complete the original mission, but who said it was too late to salvage it? After all, Victor had stayed in Canada to fix whatever fuckup he'd made, but obviously he couldn't be trusted to finish it himself.

Yuri grinned, flopping down on his bed and running a hand on Potya’s stomach, who purred loudly in response. Yuri knew what he needed to do.

Finally, his grandfather would see how capable Yuri was.

Springing off the bed and opening the door of his room, Yuri slipped out into the hall, trying to remember where exactly his passport was. He had a sinking feeling it was in his grandfather's office, where most of the important documents were kept. Luckily, Yuri knew his grandfather only locked his door if he wasn't in the house.

Yuri resisted the urge to sneak through the halls. After all, he _lived_ here, and it would probably arouse more suspicion if he was spotted skulking about the place. But when the office door came into view, he couldn't help but feel a wash of relief that he hadn't run into anyone on the way there.

Looking around to confirm that there was no one else around, Yuri stopped outside the door, straining to hear if anyone was inside.

"...send someone after him?"

Yuri stiffened, recognizing the voice. It was Andrei, Nikolai's right hand man. Yuri knew him well; he had always been around when Yuri was growing up, to the point where the others called him Nikolai's shadow. It made sense, of course: he was one of Nikolai's most trusted men, and always had his ear. Most of the family respected the authority that position granted, and showed him the deference he deserved.

Most, except for Yuri.

Yuri heard his grandfather sigh from the other side of the door, sounding tired. "Yakov assures me Victor knows what he's doing."

"But we've heard nothing for quite a long time. How can we trust that Mr. Nikiforov hasn't been compromised?"

Yuri frowned. Why was Andrei so interested in Victor's mission?

There was a pause before Nikolai answered. "I trust Yakov's opinion."

"But isn't it possible that Mr. Feltsman is a tad biased?"

 _Mr. Nikiforov. Mr. Feltsman._ God, what a prick.

"Honestly, Andrei, I'm not concerned at this point. We have more important things to deal with. Focus your energy on the bigger picture."

Andrei said something in response, but Yuri wasn't really listening. They weren't concerned that Victor had gone radio silent? On the one hand, Yuri was annoyed that he seemed to be the only one who gave a damn (not that he would admit it out loud). On the other, it would make it all the more simple to get to Victor himself.

Suddenly, the door in front of him opened, and Yuri had to jump back to avoid being smacked by it. Standing in front of him was Andrei, who blinked in surprise. But he recovered quickly, shooting Yuri a charming smile. "Ah, Yura, hello. Did you need your grandfather for something?"

Yuri couldn't help but scowl at the familiar tone Andrei used with him. He was naturally charming and charismatic, but Yuri always found his voice was less like silk and more like oil. Yuri found him so _fake_ , like an actor constantly practicing for a performance. Despite his dark hair consistently slicked back and a face of angles and shadows, he managed to project an air of trustworthiness that most people bought into. But something always seemed off about him to Yuri, and so he tried to avoid him whenever possible.

Andrei was still smiling at him with that charming, not-quite-right expression, and Yuri had to suppress a shudder. Luckily, he was saved from answering when his grandfather came up behind Andrei. His face was stern, but lit up a bit when he saw Yuri. Stepping around Andrei, he affectionately ruffled Yuri's hair. Yuri had to work to hide his smile.

"Did you need something, Yura?"

Oh, right. He was here to sneak into his grandfather's office.

"Uh, no. Just...wandering around."

The excuse was weak, even to Yuri, but his grandfather just nodded. Behind him, he saw Andrei arch a perfect, dark eyebrow, but Yuri purposely avoided his gaze. He did, however, feel a flash of guilt for abusing his grandfather's trust, but he managed to push it aside. 

"I'll see you at dinner tonight, then." With last rub to Yuri's head, his grandfather turned back to Andei, and they made their way down the hall. Yuri waited until they were out of sight before stepping up to the door and testing the doorknob. It swung open with no resistance.

The guilt was back now—no one was supposed to be in this room without his grandfather—but Yuri had come this far. He couldn't abandon his mission now.

It didn't take him long to find his passport, tucked away in a drawer of his grandfather's desk. Yuri held it up triumphantly, smiling. Step one of his plan was complete. Step two involved swiping a credit card from someone. Maybe Andrei kept one lying around the house. That would be too perfect, honestly.

Now that the plan was slowly becoming a reality, Yuri found himself growing somewhat apprehensive. He had hardly ever been in the streets of Russia by himself, let alone a completely different country. But part of the reason for this was to show his grandfather what he was capable of. After this, there was no way he could let Yuri stagnate on the sidelines.

And so, in Yuri's mind, it was settled. He was on his way to Canada.

* * *

Victor could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve his soulmate.

The restaurant Victor had picked out was one he hadn’t been to before—after all, he knew next to nothing about Toronto, having only arrived a few days before. The mission in Quebec had been his first exposure to Canada as a whole, and so he had suggested Toronto for their dinner for two reasons: it was close to where they had met in that coffee shop, and it was a large enough city that people would notice if they caused a commotion. Victor wasn’t too sure if that was something that would make Yuuri feel more or less at ease, but he had agreed when Victor suggested it, so it must have been alright in the end.

Victor arrived first, getting to the restaurant a full twenty minutes before their reservation. It was on purpose: to let him appraise the building, make sure he didn’t recognize anybody in the crowd. A larger city might make Yuuri feel safer, but to Victor, it was just a million people who could be sent here by Nikolai Plisetsky. 

The restaurant Victor picked was somewhere between casual and fancy; he was unsure of what Yuuri’s tastes were when it came to…well, anything, really. The decor was modern, but tasteful, with elegant white napkins arranged on the tables and wine glasses sitting upside down. Victor hadn’t really looked at the menu when choosing the restaurant—he was going more for location than taste. Looking at the menu quickly now—more to distract himself than any real desire for food—it seemed the standard North American fare: pasta, steak, fish.

He fiddled with his menu now, too high strung to really read it any further. It had been about a week since he and Yuuri decided to meet, which had given Victor plenty of time to work himself into a frenzy about their upcoming dinner. His stomach tied itself in knots as he waited. What if Yuuri didn’t show? What if he decided he hated Victor after all? What if someone was lying in wait to kill them both? 

Yakov hadn’t been pleased when Victor said he was staying in Canada, but surprisingly, he hadn’t argued; he had just nodded solemnly. 

“I can’t stall Nikolai forever, Vitya,” he had said, bags packed and ticket back to Russia booked. “He said he wanted you to report to him directly, and you’re going to have to at some point.”

Victor had looked away at the words, scowling slightly. “If I tell him my target was my soulmate, he’ll just send someone else to finish the job. Maybe finish me too, while he’s at it.” The idea of someone else coming after Yuuri was—

Suddenly, a hand had flashed in his vision, and Yakov was gripping his chin in a weathered hand, forcing Victor to look at him. Despite being taller, Victor had never felt so small.

“You can’t stay in this pit of self-pity, Victor,” Yakov had said sternly. “I won’t tell Nikolai what has happened.” The hand holding Victor’s chin had fallen. “I owe you that much, at least. But you must find something to tell him, and soon.”

The small bell above the door chimed, and Victor looked up expectantly, as he had been doing for the past twenty minutes. And finally, there he was.

Yuuri.

His soulmate. His other half. The person he’d been torturing, along with himself, for all these years. The person he’d almost killed.

An emotion bloomed in his chest and poured down into his stomach: something like cold anticipation mixed with the heat of dread. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Yuuri was scanning the room, and his gaze fell on Victor. He felt the weight of it, like gravity. Something flickered in Yuuri’s eyes, but it passed too quickly for Victor to identify it.

God, Yuuri was _beautiful_. He was dressed simply, in a long sleeve button up shirt and dark jeans, but his slicked back hair and piercing gaze behind his glasses made heat pool in Victor’s stomach that had nothing to do with the dread still sitting there. A small tide of shame quickly washed over him: how could he justify lusting after a man who surely hated him by now? 

But Yuuri was here, was making his way over to Victor’s table, so reminiscent of their meeting in the coffee shop a few days before. Victor swallowed his nerves, trying not to let his hands shake.

Yuuri made it to the table quickly, pulling out his chair and sitting. He winced slightly as he sat, and every single one of Victor’s swirling thoughts were replaced by guilt: knowing he caused that, that he hurt his soulmate _again_ , was almost too much to bear.

But Yuuri looked up at him behind those blue rimmed glasses and gave him a small, soft smile. “Hi,” he said, sounding shy, and Victor tried not to melt in his seat.

They sat in silence for a few moments, and eventually Yuuri picked up the menu that was sitting in front of him. A waiter came over shortly after, smiling widely at both of them. Victor ordered something random off the menu, not really caring what he got. It’s not like he could even consider eating, anyway. He did, however, order a drink. Yuuri gave his order—something Victor didn’t really listen to—and the waiter swept up their menus and promptly disappeared. Left alone again, Victor was sure the entire restaurant could hear the hard hammering of his heart. 

Yuuri fiddled with his cutlery, clearly as nervous as Victor was, but Victor had no idea where to go from here. Luckily, their drinks arrived not too long after they ordered them. The waiter placed Victor’s in front of him, and a glass of red wine in front of Yuuri.

Victor took a tentative sip of his drink, but before he could even process what it tasted like, Yuuri had knocked back his entire glass.

Victor gaped openly. “Didn’t you order a Chardonnay?” he asked, finally breaking the heavy silence between them.

A pink tinge suddenly dusted Yuuri’s cheeks, and he blinked owlishly at Victor. “Um, yeah? It was the only name I recognized on the wine list, so…”

Victor couldn’t help it: he laughed, hoping it didn’t sound too hysterical. “You’re supposed to _sip_ it, not down it like a shot at a bar!” 

Yuuri’s cheeks were now a blazing red. _It looks good on you_ , Victor thought fondly. “I—I’m sorry!” Yuuri stuttered, mortified. “I just—well, I didn’t—”

Victor waved a hand dismissively, still smiling. “No, no, it’s fine. What you do with your expensive wine is your business, after all.”

The tension was slowly draining from Victor’s shoulders, and he was beginning to feel more at ease than he had any right to be. Was it because of their soulmate connection, or something more…?

Their waiter was back not long after, asking Yuuri if he wanted another glass. Yuuri was about to decline when Victor jumped in. “Bring us a bottle,” he said. 

The waiter nodded, leaving once more. Yuuri’s mouth hung open in shock. “You can’t be serious!”

Victor grinned at him. “Obviously I need to show you how to drink it properly,” he teased.

Yuuri blinked, colour filling his cheeks again, and looked away. He looked unfairly cute like that, beautiful blush across his cheeks and brown eyes cast down in embarrassment.

Victor found it much easier to steer the conversation after that, eventually coaxing Yuuri out of his shell as well. The bottle of wine certainly helped, as well. They talked mostly about Yuuri: his family, his friend and roommate, even his hobbies. 

“Ice skating?” Victor asked, curiosity thoroughly peaked.

“Yeah,” Yuuri said, smiling softly. Oh God, he was going to _kill_ Victor with those smiles. “My friends owned the rink. It was something I did for fun. I even considered going pro when I was a kid.” Yuuri laughed, a sound somewhere between music and angels singing. Victor decided that he wanted to hear it more often.

“What changed?”

“Ah…” Yuuri took a sip of his wine (obviously still a bit self conscious from earlier). “You know...family business and all.”

“I see,” was all Victor said in response. They had studiously avoided talking about work until now, and the mood suddenly shifted again, growing somber. Victor scrambled to remedy the situation when an idea suddenly hit him. Pulling out his phone, he unlocked it, going to his camera roll. “Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“No,” Yuuri said, and Victor’s heart sank. This might not work out after all…

“I _love_ dogs,” Yuuri deadpanned, looking at Victor seriously. Victor stared for a second, and then laughed again, a little too loudly.

“Then I have a treat for you.” He handed over his phone, the album named _Makkachin_ already pulled up.

Yuuri gasped, taking the phone carefully. “So cute!”

“Her name is Makkachin,” Victor said proudly. 

Yuuri started scrolling through the pictures, and then looked up at Victor. “There are four numbers in the photo count.”

“I like to take pictures of her whenever she does something cute,” Victor responded. “But I can usually only get the camera out about half the time.”

Yuuri nodded seriously, as if that made perfect sense, then went back to the phone. He sighed wistfully. “I always wanted a dog. My parents said we wouldn’t have time for one. They were probably right, but still…” He scrolled through the photo, giggling at the picture on the screen. Victor’s heart skipped a beat at the sound. He wasn’t sure if he should be delighted that Yuuri already loved Makka (who wouldn’t?) or jealous that Yuuri wasn't smiling at him.

Suddenly, Yuuri turned the phone around to show a picture of Makkachin dressed in a hotdog Halloween costume. “I assume there’s a story here,” Yuuri said, eyes sparkling.

Victor grinned. Oh, yes there was.

They kept at it for the rest of the dinner, their food eventually arriving. Surprisingly, Victor was able to eat most of his, the nerves and apprehension from earlier almost completely dissipating. The alcohol had certainly helped, of course, but there was something about talking to Yuuri that felt…natural. 

By the end of the night, though, Victor was feeling somewhat drained. The constant barrage of emotions had been intense all night, and it was hard to shake off. Eventually, halfway through a story about how he had come home one day to find Yuri attempting to give Makka a bath, he realized that they were the only ones left in the restaurant. The wait staff were politely but obviously hovering around, cleaning up and waiting for them to finish. Victor flagged over a waitress, who came immediately.

“How many bills?” she asked, debit machine already in her hand.

“One,” Victor said swiftly before Yuuri could refuse.

“What? Victor, no, we should split it!”

Victor winked at him, pulling out a shiny black card and handing it over. “It’s no trouble, I assure you.”

Yuuri blushed again, looking like he still wanted to argue, but said nothing else. Victor made sure to leave a nice tip, as he noticed that they had stayed a full forty five minutes after the restaurant had officially closed. 

Gathering up their things and putting on their coats, they made their way onto the cool Toronto street, the restaurant light going out as soon as the door closed behind them. 

Victor found he wasn’t sure what to do now. Should he offer to walk Yuuri back to his hotel room? Would Yuuri even want Victor to know where he was staying? The events that led them to this moment suddenly began playing in Victor’s mind; yes, they had a nice enough dinner, but that didn’t mean Yuuri was suddenly going to just start _trusting_ him. Victor had a long way to go to earn that right.

He sighed, turning to Yuuri, about to ask him what he wanted to do. Instead, he caught Yuuri looking up at him, and the words died in his mouth. Yuuri’s eyes widened and he looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. His cheeks had a slight flush, too dark to just be from the cold wind.

The awkwardness from earlier was returning, and Victor cleared his throat, desperate to do something about it. “Normally I’d walk you home, but…” he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

Yuuri nodded, blush still high on his cheeks. “I think…that’s still a bit too much for me.”

Victor swallowed down his guilt, simply nodding. Of course Yuuri wouldn’t want him to know where he was staying. He wouldn’t either, in Yuuri’s position. Really, Victor should be grateful that Yuuri had agreed to meet him at all, let alone twice. 

And he was. He really, truly was. But the idea that Yuuri might never forgive him fully, might never come to really trust him, still hurt immensely.

“But—” Yuuri reached over timidly, taking one of Victor’s hands in his. Yuuri’s hands were still warm. “I had a really nice time with you.”

Yuuri gave him a small, soft smile, and Victor couldn’t help but smile back, despite the anxiety swirling inside him.

“And I wouldn’t mind doing this again.” Yuuri blinked up at him through his glasses. God, it wasn’t fair to be so beautiful. “How long…how long will you be here?”

That was a very good question, and one that Victor wasn’t sure he had the answer to yet. Yakov had essentially left him to his own devices for the time being, but Victor wasn’t sure how long that would last. And he would have to report to Nikolai at some point soon. 

That’s right…the Bratva wouldn’t stay away forever. Victor needed some kind of leverage, something that would allow him to stay with Yuuri without anyone else coming after him. 

But only if Yuuri allowed it. After all, being with Yuuri in any way—even if it was just as friends, or even passing acquaintances—would be so much more than Victor deserved.

“I’m not sure,” Victor answered honestly. 

Yuuri swallowed visibly. “Maybe we could see each other again before you go?”

Victor smiled, so wonderfully enchanted by his soulmate. His soulmate who was willing to give him another chance, who was willing to touch him, who maybe…just maybe…could learn to trust him someday.

Victor brought their still joined hands to his lips, keeping his eyes on Yuuri to gauge his reaction. Yuuri’s eyes widened, but he made no move to pull his hand back. Victor pressed his lips to Yuuri’s hand as softly as he could, more like brush of skin rather than a true kiss.

“I would like nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with us so far! Comments and constructive criticism are appreciated and encouraged!
> 
> Come scream at me on [Tumblr](https://yuuri-nikiforever.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Check out more of Ely's amazing art on her [Tumblr](http://ladynikiforova.com/)!


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